


Tempest

by JayRain



Category: GreedFall (Video Game)
Genre: Boats and Ships, I Ship It, I Will Go Down With This Boat, I Will Go Down With This Ship, M/M, Sailing, Serene - Freeform, Slow Burn, Teer Fradee, Tempest - Freeform, Vasco's Romance is Literally a Ship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2020-10-28 09:37:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 62,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20776430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayRain/pseuds/JayRain
Summary: If you take someone’s breath away, you need to know how to give it back.Love and the sea are both predictably unpredictable. So what happens when a well-meaning Legate of the Merchant Congregation and a talented and driven Naut captain catch one another's eyes?





	1. Weigh Anchor

_Weigh Anchor_

“Boat?” Vasco’s eyebrows disappear beneath the brim of his salt-rimed tricorn. The tattoos on his face are symmetrical, yet his expression makes them move like the swell of the sea that he serves. His eyes take in de Sardet, sweeping over him like a wave. Those eyes: grey with flecks of blue, flashes of green, as if he’s looked at the sea so long it’s become a part of him. His hair is the color of driftwood, brushing the color of his blue coat. His smirk changes the pattern of his tattoos yet again. 

The ink is permanent, but always changing with every movement, every flick of his gaze, every flare of his nostrils picking up the smell of stale saltwater and mildewed nets. “Boat,” he repeats. “No, this is a ship.” His smirk breaks into a full smile as he takes in the hulking hull looming above them.

Captain Vasco never leaves the dock the entire time he’s in Serene. It’s as if the rest of the city doesn’t matter to him, and really, all that does matter to a Naut is the sea. Its mutability is the only immutable thing about it. Every Naut in port is anxious, listening for the subtle changes in water lapping the hulls, as if those sounds will herald the changing tides; perking up with every breeze that comes through, pausing to feel it, if it heralds a calm voyage or a storm.

They’re not afraid of Vasco, exactly, in the way no one is ever exactly afraid of the ocean itself. It’s larger than life; it’s dangerous; it’s beautiful. It covers the world, and yet so little is known to so few. Even the Nauts, who know more about the sea than anyone, don’t know everything about it. And that’s Vasco: barely twenty-five, already a full, seasoned captain with the intricate tattoo work to prove that he may make admiral before thirty. And it is that potential for greatness, that determination to do what must be done to achieve it, that makes his crew give him a wide berth.

“If we have to set sail without the cabin boy, we will,” Vasco says, though the way his face shifts, it’s clear he doesn’t want it to come to that, and his concern over a mere cabin boy twists at de Sardet’s conscience, all but wills him to follow the few leads and use his considerable connections to track down the young Naut.

He finds the boy pale and bewildered in a cell below a merchant’s warehouse. “They keep calling me Celestin. That’s not my name,” he says, and the skin around his eyes is puffy and red and and makes his thin tattoos look like bruises. “I’m Jonah. I’m a Naut. Always have been, always will be.”

The boy’s father watches, tightlipped and destroyed, as Jonah leaves his real family for his true family. Jonah doesn’t look back; the man is nothing to him. De Sardet looks back. The man is crying.

“Thank you for what you did, with Jonah and all,” Vasco says as the last crates are loaded, and Constantin cavorts around the dock shouting orders while Kurt looks on, disaffected. “Him being only a cabin boy.”

“Why the fuss for such a lowly crew member?” De Sardet casts a sidelong glance at the captain. 

Between the shadows cast by his hat, and the ever shifting swirl of ink, Vasco is impossible to fathom. “Nauts are more than a guild. We’re a family. We take care of our own. From the sea we come, to the sea we return. The sea looks after her own, and so do we.” His voice rolls like the waves, but quickly turns to breakers crashing on rocks when one of his crew steps out of line. He storms off, leaving De Sardet alone on the dock.

He closes his eyes and tries to gather up his memories of Serene. Like the fine beach sand, so much slips through his fingers, and he holds tighter to what remains. Those dying of the Malichor, his own mother among them. The father he never knew, but heard stories of. His stern uncle, giving Constantin this one chance. Training with Kurt, learning with De Courcillon, and above all, a quiet and privileged life in a city worthy of the name Serene.

At first the crew of Nauts seems to scurry while Vasco stands at the helm, one gloved hand resting gently on the wheel. He calls out to throw off the ropes. The ship groans and shifts underfoot. De Sardet grips the rail and glances between his home and the captain. Vasco catches his eye. His mouth curves in a hint of a grin. “Weigh anchor!” he calls.

One moment they’re in port. The next, the gap between hull and dock has widened from inches to feet, from feet to yards and Serene grows smaller as the distance increases. 

There is no magical moment of the sun breaking through the persistent clouds for one last golden glimpse of home. Serene fades, sooty and grey and diseased. De Sardet releases the rail. His palms are sweaty. He strides afore, aware always of the creak of wood and the call of gulls, and the intensity of Vasco at the helm.

Ahead there is nothing but ocean, months of green-grey water and prayers for fair winds. Ahead, there is an unwritten future. He hopes the gold glint of sunlight on the water is a fair omen. He almost asks Vasco.

Almost.


	2. Water, Water Everywhere

_Water, Water Everywhere_   


After the first day, life on the ship settles into monotony. There’s naught else but sky and water. At first it’s beautiful; sometimes there is a sharp line of demarcation between the two, and sometimes the line is blurred by a far-off storm, or by mists. And then it’s dull, because the line is always there. And then it’s maddening, because the line never changes. When the ship rises on a swell, the horizon line remains. When it descends into a trough, the horizon line remains. It never changes, never breaks. It’s hard to imagine they’re making any headway at all. Some days it feels that they’re aboard a painted ship, stuck in a painted ocean.

Other days the wind blows and the ocean splashes, and De Sardet can look over the rail and see the ship cutting through the water, like a plow through a furrow. 

One night they are invited to join the captain for dinner in his quarters. De Sardet expected another cramped cabin, Vasco’s quarters are located at the stern, with a wide window overlooking the sea. He stares out, and realizes that Serene is there, somewhere, or maybe nowhere. Here, in the middle of the ocean with the sun beginning to set, they are everywhere and nowhere all at once. The Congregation has its hands in trade all over, and yet De Sardet feels suddenly small.

De Courcillon and Constantin speak eagerly about the opportunities awaiting them on the island. Constantin rattles off facts he’s memorized, probably in an attempt to impress his dour and staid father. De Sardet thinks about his mother, about the promise he made that he cannot hope to keep. He nibbles at his meal, sips some wine, politely excuses himself to walk the decks.

It’s easier at night, when there’s no line between the sea and the sky, and on calm, clear nights the stars reflect in the water and he feels like he’s in the center of one vast, dark bubble. He heads for the bow, the only indicator of ‘forward’ they have. He stands there moving yet not moving. The air is cool and still.

“Seasick?” Vasco comes up beside him and leans on the railing. He’s removed his hat, and locks of pale hair frame his face. The sun has long since gone down, yet the kohl around his eyes is still there. Smudged, but there. He’s donned his coat, but wears it open over his loose shirt and breeches.

“No.” There aren’t really words to describe what he feels.

“Homesick?” Vasco’s voice is softer this time, and his eyes search De Sardet. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve dealt with it. The little ones, those that are Sea-Given and brought aboard sometimes have trouble.” 

He thinks back to Jonah, who has a family and yet doesn’t know them, nor want to know them. “Was the cabin boy Sea-Given?” he asks, rather than share his feelings with the captain. He’s been in politics too long already in his short life, and knows the value of secrets.

“Aye, he was.” Vasco stretches his arms along the railing. His fingers caress the polished wood.

“Sea-Given? Is that how one becomes a Naut then?”

“One way. Those born aboard our ships are the Sea-Born. Those given to the Nauts are the Sea-Given.”

“Sea-Born? But then they have no choice!” De Sardet fixes Vasco with a horrified stare.

Vasco isn’t offended. He continues to brush his fingers over the railing, tracing a pattern only he knows is there in the darkness. A lantern hangs from the mast, and two are lit at the helm, but it’s not enough to make out much more of him than a pale blur. “Did you have a choice?” he asks. “You were born into the Congregation. You were made their Legate and told to sail to the island. Did anyone ask you want you wanted?” De Sardet remains silent, because beneath that self-assuredness, Vasco is shrewdly observant. It may be one of his best qualities as a captain, because he can look at his crew and knew what’s going on with them. De Sardet makes a mental note to school his emotions and expressions. If Vasco can unmask him, what will the other governors of Teer Fradee see?

“What about you?” he asks in lieu of an answer.

“Sea-Given,” Vasco says without a pause. “Though my first memories are of a ship. I took my first steps on a ship, so I may as well have been Sea-Born, for what it’s worth.” His expression is proud, and he straightens up just a little. 

Sea-Given. They have no choice either. De Sardet turns from staring at the water below to the crew milling about the decks, swinging through the rigging, whistling and chuckling. None of them have had a choice. “How do you stand it?” he murmurs.

“Stand what?” Vasco’s sea-grey eyes are shaded in the darkness, but he feels their intensity on him nonetheless. His gaze demands an answer. His silence says he won’t leave without one.

“The… the water. Everywhere. It’s all there is as far as the eye can see. How do you know where you’re going? Don’t you get tired of the emptiness?”

“It’s only empty if you don’t know what you’re looking at,” Vasco tells him.

The riddles and playful teasing would be enjoyable at any other time, any other place: a tavern, a soiree, somewhere he can find escape if and when he tires of the games, and of thinking too deeply on something he doesn’t care to understand.

But now he wants to understand, and there’s nowhere he can escape that Vasco won’t find him, or he won’t find Vasco. It’s one of the largest ships in the fleet, and there’s still nowhere to go. And out there, nothing. It’s impossible to imagine that Serene is behind them, and Teer Fradee ahead. There’s nothing but water, water everywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I adore Coleridge's _Rime of the Ancient Mariner_, and that is where the title of this bit comes from.


	3. Embrace the Storm

_ 3\. Embrace the _ Storm

The weeks blend into one another like the sky into the ocean at the horizon. It’s easier to believe that this will be his forever-reality, that he’ll never walk dry land again, that he’ll always be at the mercy of the sloping deck.

“We’ve had marvelous weather for travel,” Constantin remarks, unbothered by the unbroken monotony of it all.

Kurt groans and dips the rim of his hat over his scarred face. “You had to go and say something.”

Without meaning to, De Sardet glances over at Vasco, standing nearby. Vasco catches his eye--he does that a lot, but rarely says much to him, after that conversation on the bow--and does not smile, not the way he normally would when Constantin and Kurt complain.

Though the sun is bright and the only clouds are puffy, white, and harmless, Vasco’s expression is grim. His furrowed brows pull his tattoos into different formations; his frown emphasizes the lines etched on his chin and jaw. His voice is sharp, though not angry: commanding. Constantin retires below for more lessons with De Courcillon while the crew moves about with more energy than usual.

“You feel that, Green Blood?” Kurt rests his elbows on the rail and stares out at the horizon. “Everything’s tense as a bow string about to snap.” His face is a permanent scowl; De Sardet can’t recall a single time he smiled. A smirk, here and there, when besting him in training? Perhaps the scars, which have also been a constant in his memories, make it impossible for Kurt to smile.

The first fat raindrops plop down, darkening the deck in spots, and then patches, and then all is soaked as the clouds close in in earnest and blot out the sun. The sails fill suddenly and the ship jerks forward--the first true indication of forward momentum De Sardet has felt this whole first month. Another gust and the ship jerks again, and he stumbles.

“Hoist sails!” Vasco commands, and the crew springs into action. They take no notice of Kurt and De Sardet on deck; De Sardet looks for Vasco and finds the captain climbing the rigging, as comfortable walking in the air as he is on the deck. Then he’s sliding down a rope and his boots hit the deck; he strides to the helm and spins the wheel until the ship groans and begins to turn into the wind. “Below decks, men,” he orders, and it takes a moment for De Sardet to realize he means him.

Kurt doesn’t need to be asked twice; the sea swells and the ship with it, and the rain comes down harder. The ship drops suddenly into a trough and De Sardet stumbles on the soaked deck. Another wave slaps the hull and wind gusts drive the rain sideways.

He holds his tricorn on his head with one hand while waiting for Kurt to descend belowdecks. Squinting against the rain, he spies Vasco holding the helm and standing as calm as on any other sunny day. Lightning splits the clouds, immediately followed by the roar of thunder. Vasco’s grinning. He shouts orders, inaudible over the roar of the storm, and yet his crew follows orders without hesitation.

The storm is all-encompassing, and there is no way this ship can survive. Timber and iron and pitch can’t hope to be a match for the constant cracks of lightning splitting the skies. The heavens can’t possibly survive being shredded apart. The rain and the sea vie against one another. And through it all Vasco stands tall, a force of nature in his own right.

And suddenly those sea-grey, storm-grey eyes are on De Sardet; they go wide. His grip on the wheel falters. He’s shouting, his mouth is moving and his tattoos shifting like the swirling clouds above, apart from the storm and yet at the same time, part of it.

Another bolt of lightning, this one to the forward mast, and the force of the storm-blast sends several nearby Nauts flying. De Sardet is paralyzed by the terror of it, the beauty of it, the display of sheer power of both the storm, and of the scattered Nauts who just pick themselves up and get back to stations as if nothing happened. And of his own inability to  _ move _ , to do what he needs to survive.

He’s never been so utterly out of his element before.

Of which he’s reminded when a massive wave crashes over the deck and he scrambles to hold onto something as his legs sweep out out from under him. He gasps and splutters and another wave, then another and he can’t get his footing, or a decent breath, and he’s slipping, sliding, caught in the sea’s embrace. The cold takes him and fills him and the last thing he recalls is a hand gripping his forearm.


	4. Overboard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which De Sardet reveals his given name._

_ Overboard _

There’s something on his chest. He forces his eyelids apart and everything is blurry at first. He blinks away the stinging grit and tries to lift his head, and then gasps in surprise. The gasp sends razor-sharp pain searing through his chest, and the featureless face of a leather doctors’ mask stares at him. The formed leather beak nearly touches his nose and the dark eye holes stare at him just long enough to convince him that he should lie back.

He obeys the tacit command and the weight is back on his chest. The doctor listens to his heart and his breathing, then presses two fingers to the side of his neck and stares at the wall while taking a pulse. Then that strange masked face turns to someone else in the room and nods before rising suddenly and leaving.

De Sardet relaxes and closes his eyes. He’s never liked the crow-faced doctors; they only remind him of the Malichor that sweeps through Serene, constantly taking with no end in sight.

When he wakes there’s still pressure in his chest, though no doctor resting a masked head upon him. He tries to prop himself up on his elbows, but lacks the strength to do so. There was a storm. Lightning and thunder, and Vasco at the helm, daring the sea to do its worst. Slashing rain, and colder, darker, fouler sea water.

This isn’t his cabin.

His heart thuds against his breastbone and every breath feels like laces pulling his ribs too tight around his lungs. He struggles to get half upright, the effort leaving him breathless and a little dizzy. Cold pools in his belly when he sees his shirt open over his bruised chest. A rough woolen blanket covers his legs, and he shifts enough to feel that he still wears his breeches. It’s a small relief. 

“Doctor says you’ve no water in your lungs.”

The laces pull tighter around his lungs. His heart thuds and his stomach turns, and then his face flushes deeply. Vasco sits in a deeply polished, dark wooden rocking chair, long legs crossed at the ankles and a book lying face down in his lap.

“Amazing, considering how… how much my chest hurts,” De Sardet says with a wince. He pulls at the blanket to cover himself. It’s rough against his bare skin. Belatedly he realizes there are no buttons left on his shirt--it’s been pulled apart. And this is Vasco’s blanket. On him.

“That’s why there’s no water in your lungs,” Vasco says. “I had the pleasure of pumping it out of you. Old Naut trick. Sometimes it causes rib injuries, but I think in your case you’re just bruised. Nothing broken. May I?”  
What’s he going to say, as the ship’s captain, who’s given up his bed and his cabin, gets up and comes near? He nods mutely. Vasco adjusts the bolster behind him so he can sit upright more comfortably. The captain’s linen shirt is open at the collar, and the tattoos scroll down his neck and onto his clavicles. De Sardet looks at the opposite wall and prays Vasco didn’t catch him looking.

Vasco’s touch is professional as he feels around on his left side, and his light hair falls over one shoulder: close to him, close enough to touch if he wanted, and he shouldn’t want to. He curls his fingers into the sheets underneath him, rather than do something he’s going to regret.

There are still another six weeks, at least. 

It’s bad enough he’s in this position.

“Mind telling me what you were thinking?” Vasco asks. He sits back down and rocks with the motion of the ship, as comfortable here as he is on the open deck. “I’m not usually one to question my betters, but usually non-Nauts know better than to try riding out a storm above decks.” When there is no answer, Vasco presses. “I don’t think you quite understand the severity of what could have happened, De Sardet.”

“Alexandre.”

Vasco pauses his rocking, head cocked to the side. “Excuse me?”

“Alexandre De Sardet. If you’re to chastise me for my stupidity, I’d prefer you use my given name.” He stares down at the blue blanket and his torn shirt, at the walls and the lanterns swaying gently with the rolling motion of the ocean. Anywhere but at Vasco. 

“Very well then… Alexandre. May I inquire as to what was going through your mind?”

He manages to sound curious, rather than condescending. Alex doesn’t deserve it, and his cheeks burn with shame. “I’d never seen something so powerful before,” he says at last, and has that image of Vasco at the helm, holding the ship leeward and daring the rain and wind to take him. “They say Naut ships never sink; and that storm was… was…”

One corner of Vasco’s mouth twists up. “Just a storm. I’ve been through worse, and through many a hurricane.” A finger touches the swirls along his jaw. “But even a mere storm deserves understanding and respect. You learn that fast on the sea.”

“So I’ve discovered.” Alex doesn’t know if he’s talking about the actual storm. Sometimes Vasco and the sea are one and the same: predictably unpredictable, sometimes sunny and serene and others stormy and pensive. And always with much more beneath the shifting surface. “Thank you for your assistance,” he says stiffly. He kicks off the blanket and swings his legs over the edge of the bed.

“Far be it from me to ask what you think you’re doing,” Vasco begins, and Alex glances over at thim. “But what do you think you’re doing?”

“I should go below. Constantin is likely to be worried.” Alex pauses, takes another aching breath, and gets to his feet. He only sways slightly. He looks down at his torn shirt in dismay. The ship is only so big, and rumors may already be flying, but how much more when they see his torn shirt, and see him stumbling from the captain’s quarters? The thought is at once mortifying and exciting.

“Alexandre,” Vasco calls as he nears the door. Alex turns around just in time to get a wad of cream-colored linen to the face. He fumbles to catch it, and then shakes out an intact shirt. He glances up at the captain, who’s smirking again. “I know how important discretion is to you types. I’ve hauled enough of you over the years. You can borrow it for the time being.”

Not only has Vasco abandoned the helm to save him from going overboard; not only has he given up his bed for Alex’s brief convalescence; now he’s literally giving him a shirt off his back to help protect his reputation. Vasco gestures toward a privacy screen, and Alex shuffles over behind it and quickly changes. First Vasco’s blankets, now Vasco’s shirt. It’s almost cruel, considering his own stupidity has ruined any chance he might have had with the man. 

“Thank you,” he says as he approaches the door again. “I’ll see to it that this is returned before we reach New Serene.” He opens the door and sunlight, sharp as a scythe blade, cuts into him. 

“De Sardet!” Vasco calls, and his stomach drops slightly at the use of his surname--though with the door open, the crew would hear their captain, and he’s using that discretion he thinks nobles want so much. “You weren’t breathing. You may want to ask around to find out the other Naut trick we use.” 

Alex does turn around to see Vasco leaning against a support beam, arms crossed over his rumpled shirt. His lined grey eyes have the slightest sparkle in them, like the sun catching on the water, and his lips are ever so slightly curved. Not a smile, but not  _ not _ a smile. Alex stares longer than is proper as he tries to read Vasco’s expression.

But Vasco is better at this game than he is, and has learned from the sea, the best and harshest master of all, about how to be unreadable.

He will only ever know as much about Vasco as Vasco is willing to let slip.

Vasco is Sea-Given and has spent his life on ships. He knows how to tie a knot that won’t slip.


	5. Below Deck

_Below Deck_   


If the days blended together interminably before, they’re worse now. Alex spends as much time as possible below decks, confined to his berth and exhausting every plausible excuse for his absence at social events. His old tutor De Courcillon accepts his reticence and does not intrude again; it leaves Alex feeling guilty, since the older man was the one to teach him social graces and arrange for his etiquette training. Kurt offers to train on the top deck in the sun, and Alex feigns injury, gesturing pitifully to his bruised ribs (which are healing quite nicely, but he won’t tell anyone that).

Only his cousin refuses to accept his sudden coolness and reservation. Constantin walks in without knocking and Alex scrambles to shove Vasco’s shirt out of sight. “Your brush with death has left you melancholy, Cousin,” Constantin admonishes. He carries two bottles, glass as green as the depths of the sea. “We’ve not spoken much since our departure,” he says as he takes a chair. He won’t be leaving unless Alex has to carry him out bodily (which he’s done before when Constantin gets too drunk--he’s always been slighter than Alex). “And certainly not since your accident. I can’t in good conscience land in New Serene without speaking with you about it in depth.” He hands Alex a bottle.

He expects his cousin to have brought rum, or port, or any of the liquors the Nauts are known for. He’d even settle for brandy right now, which, while not a favorite, has the ability to get him drunk quickly enough that he doesn’t need to suffer the taste of it any longer than he needs to. But the bottle is wine, mellow and warming, deep and fruity and the color of blood.

This won’t get him drunk; tipsy at most. It will loosen his tongue and leave him sleepy and with a slight headache in the morning. Constantin has already started in on his bottle, and Alex takes it slowly. There’s much he wants to share, so much, but he wonders if it’s because he and Constantin have always shared. That maybe some things are better kept locked away. Constantin knows of his preference for men, and has always accepted it, and helped to divert unpleasantness, and for that, Alex is grateful. So perhaps for that, he does owe his cousin some insight into his melancholy.

“Are you in pain?” Constantin puts his feet up.

_ Only my pride. _ “No, not much.”

“That’s a relief.” He smiles and takes a slow pull of the bottle. “You’ve not shown your magical aptitude on this voyage.”

Alex holds out one hand and an interplay of light and shadow, not so different from the stormy skies, coalesces around his wrist and twines around his fingers. Constantin watches, mesmerized, and perhaps a bit jealous. Neither of them took to the sword as well as Kurt had hoped, but at least Alex can defend himself without a weapon handy. “It’s not a common ability,” Alex says, and it’s his usual defense to make Constantin feel a little better. “I’d rather not show off.”

“Oh, I can think of a certain Naut who might not mind a show.”

“How much did you drink before deciding to visit me?” Alex keeps his voice light and neutral, his expression as wooden as the planks of the hull. But the hull holds out water and pressure; one crack and the ship will go down, and one crack in his defenses and he’ll fall apart. Already Vasco has done more to breach his metaphorical hull in a few short weeks than any other man has managed in years.

“Come now, Cousin.” Constantin smiles bright as the stars, and his eyes are as dreamy. “I see him looking. I see you looking.”

“It’s a ship, Constantin. There’s only so much one  _ can _ look at.” He drinks. It’s easier than coming up with another excuse. Especially when… “Wait, he looks at me?”

“Frequently.” Constantin’s light blue eyes sparkle like starlight on the waves.

Alex slouches; unbecoming for one of his stature, but in his cramped cabin with his only friend he has no pretenses to keep up. “It doesn’t matter. We’re only a week out from New Serene. I’m Congregation, he’s a Naut. Sailors aren’t known for putting down roots.”

There are no Naut cities; the sea is their realm, and they draw their secrets and their power from its depths. The sea is everywhere and nowhere all at once, and the thought of a Naut settling inland is laughable.

“You  _ do _ like him.” Constantin’s proclamation does not poke any fun. His face wavers between wonder and concern. “It’s been a long time since you’ve taken a fancy to someone. I thought perhaps it was my imagination.”

“No, just my own inability to school my expression when faced with a devastating man.” Alex twirls the bottle between his fingers. “And again, it doesn’t matter.”

Constantin reaches out and pats his knee. “Were it any other man, you’d have my blessing, Cousin. Not because you need it, but because I’d want to give it freely, to see you happy.”

“Thank you, Constantin. That does mean a lot.” His cousin has always meant well. They were raised side by side, each groomed to stand here today. Sometimes Alex wonders if they truly had a childhood, or a years-long agenda of tasks to prepare them for this voyage. He can understand why Constantin had rebellious tendencies. As the Prince’s son, he’s struggled to forge his own identity under his father’s shadow. As the Prince’s nephew, Alex has had less scrutiny, but more to live up to, and so he’s striven for top marks in his schooling and top performance in his diplomatic relations. He’s been a thing of curiosity in that regard, what with his magical prowess (rare, outside of Theleme, and even his abilities differ from those of the zealots) and the strange grey birthmark on the left side of his face.

“At least when we reach port you’ll have plenty to keep you busy.” Constantin’s smile is reassuring. “Who knows, perhaps the court will have a gentleman to your liking.”

“Who likes me back,” Alex points out. That’s always been the trick. 

But Alex doesn’t want another gentleman. He wants a force of nature who can command the seas and dare the skies to sweep him away. He wants a man who keeps him guessing, a man deeper than the ocean with as many secrets. A man who gives him a shirt, who understands his need for discretion, who has saved his life, who looks at him and  _ sees _ him.

Now that he doesn’t bear his secret in silence, he should be able to go above decks and see the captain, because at least now he can lament with Constantin later on. That is one aspect of their friendship he has missed. 

Yet every time he nears the stairs to go up, he can’t make himself climb. He looks up at the sunlight filtering down. Watches the shadows of boots passing by. Imagines the boots belonging to Vasco, and of course his mind wanders up, up, imagination pausing here and there on his journey, until he reaches Vasco’s face etched in his mind, the way the tattoos are etched into Vasco’s face.

And he turns around and feigns seasickness. The lack of sun has left his bronzed skin sallow, which helps with the ruse.

The ruse ends one morning when the First Mate’s whistle sounds, and the trample of boots overhead indicates that they’ve spotted Teer Fradee. Alex’s heart snags in his chest as he realizes how much time has passed, how much time he’s wasted. The storm is in his stomach as he stares around his cramped cabin, home for the last three months, and something catches in his throat as well. 

Aboard this ship, he’s been free to be himself. The hierarchies of Serene society mean nothing on the sea. They’re passengers at the mercy of the ocean and the abilities of the Nauts. He’s the Legate only in title, and for three months he’s just been Alex De Sardet. When he debarks, sets foot on Teer Fradee, he immediately becomes Legate De Sardet.

And Vasco will sail away to other lovers in other ports, to other storms and sunsets, on high tides and fair winds.

The drop of the anchor in the harbor is not nearly as heavy as his heart.


	6. Any Port in a Storm

_ Any Port in a Storm _

It’s the same as any harbor: weathered decking, cramped red warehouses, stacks of crates, and the smell of brackish water and mildew hovering in the air. Alex squints as he stands at the rail, trying to figure out if they ever truly left the continent or just weighed anchor in Serene Harbor for three months. The cobblestone streets are the same; the smoke rising from buildings up the hill are the same. New Serene isn’t any different from Old Serene, as far as the eye can see.

That doesn’t matter to Constantin, who lets out a _ whoop! _of glee and runs down the gangplank the moment it’s rolled out and Vasco gives the word. “Hello New Serene!” he calls out. When he reaches the dock he spreads his arms and twirls about. 

“I think he’s excited,” Kurt says, standing beside him at the rail. He crosses his arms over his chest and glowers down at the docks from under the sweeping brim of his hat. Kurt does not sound excited. Kurt looks out and sees the many security inadequacies of a new city in a new land. He sees a palace he’s not yet vetted, and a guard crew whom he doesn’t know as well. He doesn’t see excitement when he looks at Constantin: he sees foolishness born of privilege. He lets out a sigh and brushes past Alex.

Nerves claw in his belly as he grips Vasco’s linen shirt in one hand. He casually glances about at the Nauts working as efficiently as any hive of honeybees. His pulse patters staccato through his veins and his breath comes in short hitches. The helm is empty. The deck is clearing as passengers and crew alike prepare for port.

“Some people think the sea looks the same in every direction.” Vasco’s voice cuts through the silence next to him, and Alex turns suddenly. Vasco rests his elbows on the rail of his ship, staring moodily out at the city. “I’ve always believed every city is the same. Doesn’t matter where you sail to, be it the continent or this island, or bloody Theleme. Every city is the same.” Then he turns to see Alex watching him, taking in this last view. “Though I think this city may have something special about it.”

The roar of blood in his ears is a tempest, and he looks away. “Yes, Constantin will be a good governor,” he says, looking down on his cousin, who is trying to push away a beak-masked doctor. “Once he gets used to the local customs.” He makes himself smile and wishes there would be a breeze to ease the burning in his cheeks.

“Keep telling yourself that’s what I mean,” Vasco suggests.

“Before I forget,” Alex stammers, before he does forget, and before he can allow himself to think about what Vasco means and just how stupid he has been to wallow in his own pity. He shoves the shirt at Vasco, who stares down at the wad of material in his hand. “Thank you, captain, for a fair voyage.”

Vasco levels his grey eyes at him, with something between a scowl and a smirk playing on his lips. “Aye, it was fair enough, save for the last half.”

Alex’s mouth goes dry. His palms sweat and his magic glows at his fingertips. He clenches his hands into fists. “All the same, thank you.” He doesn’t wait for a response. He debarks, and after three months at sea he finds standing on dry land disorienting. He’s barely taken two steps into his new home city when a doctor shoves a small cup under his nose. He recoils from the acrid aroma, but a moment later Vasco is at his side and takes a cup from another doctor. He shoots it down, winces, and hands the cup back to the doctor, all on his way past Alex and Constantin to the station where his admiral waits.

His stride is as firm and sure on land as it was at sea. His coat brushes against Alex. Alex nearly reaches to catch it, to apologize for his distance. But they’re not only docked, he’s not even on the ship. _Alex_ is gone.

In his place Legate Alexandre De Sardet straightens up and adjusts his hat as he surveys his new home. He takes a few steps. The dock does not move beneath his feet. Ahead of him, Constantin is having trouble getting his land legs back. He stumbles like a drunkard, and with his unstoppable glee, acts like one as well. “Cousin,” he says, the formal and measured tone returning to him easily even after months at sea. “Welcome home.”

Lady Lurine Morange, the former Governess of New Serene, awaits them further up the dock. She greets Constantin with a bow; and De Courcillon with a hug and a smile, the kind reserved for old friends long unseen. Constantin bounces like a bee in a jar. As the Legate, Alex’s presence is appreciated, but not vital. He’s largely ignored, and his gaze shifts from New Serene over to the edge of the dock.

The woman in the red coat can only be an admiral, based on the way Vasco stands, arms crossed over his chest and lips pressed into a thin line. The tension in his stance is like the tide before a storm, sucking itself in, preparing to let loose… and waiting, waiting.

And when the storm surge does release, it’s in Alex’s direction. He holds his breath as Vasco storms up the dock, expression at once bemused and irate. “Captain,” Alex says. His palms tingle. His chest tightens. He tears his eyes away from Vasco to the admiral in her red coat and sees her staring at them. His stomach twists, wringing out anxiety all through him. What has the admiral said? What has Vasco told her?

“Legate,” Vasco replies, voice thick with irony. “Admiral Cabral has seen fit to lay me off for the time being, and has ordered that I see to you and assist you with anything you may need.”

He says this like it’s the worst punishment in the world, and for a Naut, being torn from the sea will be torture. But Alex would be lying to himself if he thought he wasn’t the slightest bit enthusiastic about more time with Vasco. However, as has always been the trick, Vasco would need to be enthusiastic as well. And right now, he’s visibly seething, tattoos writhing with every subtle shift of his facial muscles.

“Do you need me to speak with your admiral? Assure her that the crossing was… was better than expected?” Alex is elated to spend more time with Vasco. Alex feels terrible that Vasco has been taken off duty and ordered away from the sea he adores. Alex wants to fall in the harbor to cool off, and find something else to focus on besides the hurricane of emotions swirling in him.

“Thank you, but no. Admiral Cabral assures me it has nothing to do with my aptitude or with the voyage itself.” Vasco’s voice has gone tight and gravelly. He’s a fish out of water, a gull flown inland with no foreseeable way back to the sea. He glares over his shoulder where Cabral remains, watching. For one rare moment he removes his hat and runs a gloved hand over his fair hair, before slamming the tricorn back on his head and sighing heavily. “Well. Any port in a storm, as we say. May as well be this one.”


	7. Adrift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's been reading, commenting, subscribing... I can't tell you how much I appreciate it! I stumbled into the Vasco ship (hehehe) completely by accident, and I'm hooked. I'm pleased you are enjoying the journey!

_ Adrift _

His first day in New Serene is a whirlwind, and he’s as close to drowning as he was during the storm at sea. But this is a storm Alexandre De Sardet has been trained to weather, and weather it he does. He strides through the streets of the Copper District, listening to De Courcillon and Lady Morange’s discussion, and nodding in agreement with an aide’s assessment of the afternoon’s schedule. The whole time he’s aware of Vasco trailing behind him. The sure step of his boots is reduced to shuffling through the streets and the occasional huff the further they get from the Port District.

Their retinue emerges into Orsay Square. A bronze statue of Constantin’s father, Prince D’Orsay, presides over the cobblestones. Constantin makes a concerted effort to avoid it, talking a bit too brightly with Lady Morange about his hopes for the city, and nodding seriously when she shares some bit of wisdom. Alex looks up at the stern visage of his uncle and decides bronze suits him. The permanently cast expression is exactly what he wears every time Alex has seen him presiding over Serene.

They tromp up the stone staircase to the Governor’s Mansion, which looks down over the square. Here Constantin stands straighter, prouder, because now _ he’s _ the one looking down.

“My lords, a luncheon has been arranged in honor of your arrival,” Lady Morange announces. A doorman opens the door and holds it for them.

“Going to have to take my leave here, Highness,” Kurt says abruptly. He eyes the black and white marble floor just inside. “It’s been months without any Guard contact. I’d like to get the lay of the land from the men stationed here first.”

“Of course, Kurt. Your duty is of utmost importance.” Constantin already sounds surer than Alex has ever heard. “And Captain! Please, join us!” he adds with a genuine smile. “There’s plenty of room at my table. Cousin, are you coming?” Constantin strides into the marble foyer, far more comfortable in just five minutes in this place than he ever appeared in the palace at home.

Indeed, it feels no different from home, though since his time at sea, home has taken on a different meaning. Here, no one knows him. He’s Constantin’s cousin with the strange birthmark marring the side of his face. He’s just another layer in their bureaucracy. He’s… essentially Constantin’s errand boy. The only people here he knows are his cousin, De Courcillon, Kurt, and, oddly enough, Vasco. It’s comforting.

He expects Vasco to be ill at ease, but the captain again surprises him. He bears their questions practiced patience. He is schooled just enough with noble etiquette to know which fork to use at which course. He compliments the roast, though none of them know quite which animal it is. He sits straight, shoulders back, and has had the time to run a comb through his straight, ash-blond hair. Ink, blue-black as the night sea, marks his hands and fingers, and Alex longs to trace the markings.

Instead, he listens to the reports about the native islanders, and tensions with Hikmet to the northeast, and San Mateus to the northwest. It’s always been an uneasy truce with the Bridge Alliance and Theleme, who both need the Merchant Congregation, but also have very different ideas of what good the Congregation can and should do. It’s the same conversation he’s heard so many times, and like so many times before, he tunes out. 

Vasco’s watching him.

He catches the gleam in his eyes, the way the sunlight illuminates his fair hair like a crown of fire. Vasco is at ease dining among nobility, but Alex catches the tension in his grip, the paleness in his knuckles as he grips his knife, the way his face seems carved from driftwood. He’s here and making the best of it, but would rather be anywhere else. He’s rudderless, adrift, his helm spinning aimlessly and doing nothing. He has no choice but to roll with the current.

Eventually everyone files out of the dining room, leaving Constantin and Alex alone with Vasco. “We are grateful to have the support of the Nauts as we get established here in the city,” Constantin says, with a glance over at Alex. If they were any closer, his cousin would have nudged him hard enough to hurt. “Please send my regards to your Admiral when you get the chance?”

“Oh, I have words for the Admiral,” Vasco says dryly. He remains straight as a mast, fingers curled into his napkin. “I’ll add yours to them.”

Alex stifles a laugh with his napkin. Constantin nods once. “And as to your accommodation in the city…”

“Yes. Another dilemma.”

“Cousin, your residence is large enough to accommodate guests,” Constantin says suddenly, and it’s all Alex can do to quell the flurry of magic welling up within him. He turns wide eyes on his cousin. “We did discuss having you stay here, but as a diplomat who will be traveling and hosting our allies as guests, it seemed prudent to build you your own residence.” He glances between Vasco and Alex. “The Nauts have always been our closest allies, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, that is true,” Alex says and hopes he doesn’t sound too choked up. He’ll throttle Constantin later, even if his cousin _ is _ correct. “Even I haven’t seen my new home yet, but my door is open, Captain.” His heart races. Cold and slimy seaweed tendrils of anxiety wrap around his middle. He makes himself meet Vasco’s eyes. His face is as unreadable as the sea on a moonless night.

“I’ll send word to have my things brought,” Vasco finally says. His tone is as controlled as the tension in sails standing against the winds. 

The De Sardet residence in New Serene isn’t exactly spacious, but a Legate isn’t exactly a Governor and doesn’t warrant the same sprawling luxurious spaces. This suits Vasco, who is accustomed to cramped quarters. His personal belongings are few, and within a few minutes of their delivery, he has closed himself into his borrowed room.

Alex stares at the closed door and thinks about what’s behind it. He wants to apologize for Constantin’s meddling, or to inquire after the captain’s comfort. He wants anything but a stream of strangers coming and going with crates and trunks and promises to come back in the morning to arrange his home. He wants to lie down and feel the roll of the sea beneath him, to actually be on the sea, rather than in this new city that feels just like the old one he left.


	8. Spar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of the support! Have some shirtless!Vasco. Also thinking I need to start #VascoTrash, because I am and I'm so, so okay with it.  
Also, I know that a lot of things in-game are part of game mechanics and/or limitations, so I take some liberties with things for the sake of story.

_Spar_   


Vasco has left his door open.

Alex doesn’t mean to stand in his own doorway, staring across the narrow hallway, but here he is. A diplomat’s home has a staff to see to the household, and yet Vasco’s bed is made, blankets tightly tucked, and the surface smooth enough to bounce a coin off of. While chests and crates in various stages of unpacking have made Alex’s rooms a veritable jungle, it’s impossible to tell anyone has taken up residence in Vasco’s room.

Panic seizes him and he wonders if it was a dream, if Constantin’s suggestion and his own polite invitation were spoken in a sleepy haze; or if Vasco has found his accommodations intolerable, and has moved on. He finds a back stairwell that leads down to his small kitchen, then to a sitting room with a pair of glass-paned doors open to the small, yet well-tended back garden.

A bubble bursts in his belly, sending waves of heat and cold--dissipating fear mingled with relief--when he sees Vasco.

The captain’s bare, muscled back is to him, and the symmetrical markings on his light skin trail from his shoulders down to his waist and disappear beneath the band of his breeches. They stretch and shrink, sinuous and sensuous as he moves, practicing his footwork on the flagstone terrace. One step forward, rapier extended, and a quick step back. He fences with ghosts; pivots to the side, and the markings curve over his biceps and down along his tricep, along his smooth forearm and wrist.

Another pivot puts them eye to eye with Vasco’s sword extended, point aimed exactly at a space between Alex’s ribs. He need only lunge forward and he’ll run him through the heart. Alex feels a twinge in his chest, because in some ways, Vasco has already done just that. “De Sardet,” Vasco greets him, with an ironic half-grin on his face. He’s not breathing hard, though sweat makes darkened tendrils of hair cling to his forehead, and a few others have escaped the tie and frame his features.

“I thought we went over this. Alexandre, or Alex,” he replies, eyes still on that level blade that doesn’t shiver. Vasco is the perfect picture of control; they could be back on the ship, him at the helm, rather than this garden terrace for how perfectly poised he is. 

“Yes, but we’re diplomatic allies.” Vasco finally lowers his blade and sheathes it, then hooks his thumbs in his belt loops. His sword belt is slung low on his hips, which are usually covered by his ornate coat. He’s lean, nearly all muscle; and if he can handle several tons of ship on a rough sea, how much more can he handle another man?

If he’s into that. That’s always the trick.

Alex forces a laugh and tears his eyes away from Vasco’s hard muscles, and the way his arms and hands draw attention downward. Not the best start to their first day on the job together. “Constantin was just trying to be proper.”

“And what about you,  _ Alex? _ ” he asks, head cocked to the side. “Are you always so proper?”

“When I need to be, yes. And it just happens I often need to be.” His cheeks are warm. Vasco’s teasing him, and he’s relieved, excited, giddy. 

“And would it be proper for the Legate to help this rusty sailor practice his footwork?” Vasco’s grin spreads. His hand is on his hilt. 

“It can’t hurt.” Alex draws a shivering breath. “I’d have to get my sword, and--Wait!”

Vasco draws his blade faster than lightning, lunging at him with blade drawn. For one horrible moment Alex hopes he hasn’t made a mistake, that the Nauts are allies, that this isn’t some assassination plot.

There’s nothing else he can use as a makeshift rapier, and Vasco’s advance is relentless. His footwork is perfect, never missing a step, deadly dancing. His eyes meet Alex’s. The corner of his mouth turns up. “Your Master at Arms is going to be disappointed with my report,” he says, hardly winded.

Alex ducks and dodges. “Disappointed, likely. Surprised, no,” he huffs. He hopes no one sees him being chased around his own backyard like a mouse chased by a cat. He’s realized quickly Vasco’s toying with him. To what end, he’s not sure, and he keeps moving because he fully believes that Vasco won’t hesitate to draw blood. Not a lot, just enough to remind him not to underestimate the youngest Naut captain in a century.

Vasco lunges and Alex pivots to the side, and the sword is coming at him, flashing in the sun, and Vasco’s eyes are on him, asking him what he’s going to do, and he holds up his left hand.

The blade comes down and stops shy of Alex’s arm. What looks like black and violet smoke twists around his forearm and wrist and tendrils of dark energy fire from his fingertips. The tendrils wrap around the blade, around Vasco’s sword arm, around his bare torso, holding him still. Alex pushes his sweaty auburn hair off his forehead and steps out of the way, while Vasco’s grey eyes track him. He releases the spell and Vasco pitches forward. He regains his balance almost immediately and spins around, and there’s a slight pink hue in his cheeks.

They stare at one another across the stones, and this time Vasco’s blade does shiver, and his certain gaze is shaken. Finally he nods and drops the blade. “Well played,” he says with a slight bow. “I like to know who I’m fighting beside,” he explains. He picks his shirt up from the wrought iron chair near the door. “On board is one thing. It’s usually all Nauts. On land? Entirely another. You move quickly, and you have a few surprises.” He nods approvingly.

“More than a few,” Alex counters. 

“So I gather.”

They go back inside, where a servant has delivered hot breakfast from the palace, and has put on water for tea and a heady, aromatic beverage he calls ‘coffee’. Alex thinks he may be in love. With the coffee. Not with Vasco. Yet.

“I’m sorry about your ship,” Alex ventures once they’ve slowed down. The morning workout has left them both voracious.

“Cabral has her reasons,” Vasco says gruffly. “Even if I don’t understand them.”

Alex watches him sitting back, shirt open, one ankle resting on the opposite knee and a dainty porcelain teacup in a hand that can command one of the largest ships in the fleet. “I’m sorry, I just…” Vasco’s eyes meet his. His face is calm, almost soft, but still unreadable. “Don’t understand why she’d order such a good captain to stay ashore. Constantin and I can handle well enough now that we’re here. Not that I mind,” he adds quickly. 

A small  _ humph _ escapes Vasco. “Naut ships never sink,” he says. “They find their way to port no matter how terrible the storm.” Alex nods. “Our shipwrights have a lot to do with it; but once the ship is on the sea, it’s no good without a crew. And a crew that can’t follow orders is useless. I’m a captain, but the admirals are above me, so I do what they say. I won’t be the reason the ship sinks.” His tone is one of begrudging respect.

Before him sits a man who has not been born to power or privilege, but worked his way up since before he could walk, who has fought for everything he has and earned every scar, every tattoo, every ounce of respect his crew affords him. And he defers. There are nobles who would do well to learn from the Nauts, and Vasco’s laugh is deep and genuine when Alex tells him so. “You’ve a strange way of thinking for one of your station, Alex,” Vasco says, and the way his name slips out so naturally, the way his smile reaches his eyes and bends his tattoos, makes it hard to breathe, hard to sit comfortably. “It’s… appreciated.” 

He rises from the chair in a fluid motion, shirt falling open. He stands there a moment before tucking strands of hair behind his ears--which are pierced with gold hoops--and gives a tiny mock bow. “So, anything on the docket for today, Excellency?” And the way he says Excellency, partially bowed at the waist, grey eyes raised to meet Alex’s, and a small grin playing at the corners of his mouth, nearly melts the last of Alex’s reserves.

Gods above. It’s just the first morning.

“Oh, plenty,” Alex says after a measured breath in and then out to gather himself.

And there is plenty to do, but there are other things--and people--Alex would rather do instead.


	9. Allies

_ Allies _

“Got a moment, Greenblood?” 

Alex nods eagerly and sets aside the pile of correspondence he’s been working on. Already several rolls of junk solicitations lie in the fireplace, and he’s been triaging which documents need an immediate response. To his dismay, that pile is much taller than he’d like. He rests his pen in the inkwell and gestures for Kurt to have a seat. “I always have time for my friends,” he says. “Drinks?”

Kurt shakes his head, and while he remains pensive as ever, being called ‘friend’ turns the corners of his mouth up just enough to be noticeable. Not quite a smile, but not his usual worried frown. Kurt was Alex’s first crush, not that he’d ever tell him that. He’s just grateful that it’s since abated, and he can still be friendly with his trainer. 

“You know that saying about how things change but remain the same?” Kurt asks, and Alex nods. “There’s nothing new about New Serene. I’ve been catching wind of things just in the couple of days we’ve been here.”

“And you’d like me to investigate?” Alex asks. The chance to leave his study and the mountains of paperwork behind glimmers just out of reach.

“It _ does _ involve merchants, and you _ are _ the Legate,” Kurt points out with a shrug. 

“They’ll talk to me, you mean.” Kurt’s lifelong Coin Guard. He’s a good man, and an honorable one, but he’s still guard. If the merchants and shopkeepers aren’t keen to talk to the newly arrived Captain, something’s amiss. 

Alex stands and fastens the brass buttons of his waistcoat. “Say no more, Kurt. I think it’s time for me to take a walk.”

* * *

In the end Vasco accompanies him, and cuts a dashing figure as he strolls alongside him. His blue coat has been freshly laundered, his hat and boots cleaned and oiled, and his belt buckles polished. He takes in the city, makes pleasant small talk with Alex, and often glances in the direction of the Port District. No matter where they pause, what sector of the city they end up in, he’s keenly aware of the direction toward the ocean.

At first he’s afraid no one will talk, given that Vasco is with him; but Vasco is clearly a Naut, and while the shopkeepers are nervous around him, they speak in hushed tones with furtive glances. No one wants to say more than a few words about a brutally murdered merchant, lest their broken bodies are the next to litter New Serene’s alleys.

New Serene isn’t an old city; maybe just a few years older than Alex’s own 23 years, and already it’s filled with the same lurking corruption he and his mentors faced back home. Yet the whispered talk of the Silver Coin reminds him of the same extortion schemes he worked to break up in his old city. The merchants he tries to speak with are understandably frightened; one of their own has been murdered to prove a point, and the rest of them are at risk. Alex isn’t above sliding a pouch of gold across a counter, underneath his cupped palm.

“He’s due back in two days,” the general goods shopkeep finally murmurs. His fingers slide across his countertop and neatly snatch the pouch.

“Then we will be as well,” Alex promises. He meets the man’s eyes. Nods once, decisively, and heads back toward his home. Already he’s learning the layout of the streets; there’s no canal slicing through the city, but otherwise it’s very similar to home. Some things never change. He smirks in spite of himself.

“Something humorous?” Vasco asks.

“Just thinking that you were right.” Alex pauses to allow Vasco’s step to fall in line with his. “All cities are the same. Full of the same problems, and the same people.” This, however, makes him a bit melancholy. Just a couple of days in the city and he’s already trying to break down corruption.

Until Vasco pats his shoulder and gives it a light squeeze--not much, just enough to startle him out of his dull daze. “Not all the same.” He drops his hand. “Do you need to get back to work immediately?”

He should, but the extortion situation has him dreading the additional work piling up as they stand here in the street. And if anyone else asked, he’d say yes. “Only if you don’t have something more pleasant in mind,” he says, careful not to belie his giddy excitement.

They end up in the Coin Tavern, and everyone gives the new Legate and the heavily tattooed captain a wide berth. Vasco’s stride is easy, paying no mind to eyes upon him. They’re whispering about his tattoos, and Alex wonders what they’d say if they saw him sparring shirtless in the morning light.

Vasco swaggers up to the bar and orders two mugs of ale, and inclines his head toward Alex. Alex follows to a smaller table in the back, head held high and expression neutral, maybe a tad haughty. _ Yes, I’m the new Legate. No, I will not be bought. Yes, I would enjoy a drink with the Captain. _ He takes a seat across from Vasco and gratefully accepts his drink, finding it impossible not to brush Vasco’s fingers in the exchange. He hasn’t realized just how thirsty, or ravenous, he is after spending the better part of the day ferreting out information.

The first round of drinks goes down quickly, and another round arrives along with bowls of stew and crusty bread. “Thought you’d be famished,” Vasco says and Alex slows down. This isn’t the palace where choosing the wrong fork will give you away; this is hearty food after a long day. 

“Yes, I was. Thank you.” He means it. He sips his next drink more slowly and fixes his eyes on Vasco. “Can I ask you something?”

“Seems you just did. But that’s just me being cheeky,” he adds. He affects casual relaxation, but his grip on his mug is tight, and there’s tension in his jaw.

“I thought you’d want to stop by the harbor. You kept looking that way.”

“That’s not quite a question,” Vasco points out, but Alex raises an eyebrow and he sighs. “Cabral… I’m beginning to think I see why she asked me to take a shore leave.” He drops his eyes, staring into his mug. “It would look right suspicious if I were to be hanging around the harbor, much as I’m aching for a glimpse of the sea right now.” He runs a hand over his hair, draws his brows together moodily.

“Do you need me to help you with something, Vasco?” Alex doesn’t mean to lean forward, doesn’t mean to sound eager, doesn’t know quite what to do with Vasco’s surprised expression and the sudden roundness of his eyes that makes him look younger. “I may be the Legate, but we are allies, after all.” He smiles warmly and a moment later Vasco smiles back.

“Aye, we are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my Vasco-inspired necklace on my Instagram! https://www.instagram.com/jr_rainville/


	10. Like One Who Has Been Stunned

_ Like One Who Has Been Stunned _

In the mornings Alex spars with Vasco, their blades clanging and echoing like bells off the brick and stone walls closing in the garden courtyard. Sometimes Vasco asks Alex to fire spells at him and works at dodging. He’s light on his feet and hops, rolls, dashes, and even backflips to avoid one of Alex’s magic blasts. “Got to be quick on a ship,” Vasco explains, dabbing the sweat off his forehead and taking a swig of water. “Sometimes one misplaced foot is the difference between a successful voyage and taking the long swim.”

On the appointed evening Alex, Vasco, and Kurt slink into the alley near the merchant. The moon is nearly full, and Vasco is eerily beautiful beneath it, while it throws Kurt’s scars into sharp relief. One day he’ll ask how Kurt got them. But it never feels like the right time to ask, certainly not right now.

Soon the scuff of boots sounds over the cobblestones. “Remember, I get at least one for questioning.” Alex calls up the latent energy within himself, feels the familiar soft tingling of magic caressing his skin as it coalesces around his hands.

Kurt is the first one out, huge sword drawn and his face a mask of fury. Vasco follows and quickly engages.Their targets try to escape, but Kurt and Vasco work well together, and have herded their opponents toward a wall. The shop’s shutter bangs into place--or was that Vasco’s pistol--and Alex steps out of hiding with both hands held before him. A ball of writhing black smoke, shot through with pale violet lightning, gathers between his palm and he lets it loose at one of the men.

The man is caught mid-movement, stuck as if in a spiderweb: eyes wide open, mouth agape, limbs wound round with dark stasis energy. His companions aren’t quite as lucky when faced with Kurt’s huge sword and years of training, and Alex knows firsthand how formidable Vasco is with a blade. When they lie in a heap on the pavement, blood black in the moonlight, Alex releases the spell and the man falls limply to the ground. “Tell me about the Silver Coin,” he demands. He holds his hand out, glowing violently violet and crackling over the sounds of the city at night.

The man pisses himself.

Later, they’ll laugh about it, and Kurt will tease Alex, insisting his only power is to make grown men wet themselves. “Better pissed off than pissed on,” Vasco will agree. 

But for now all they have is a name to go on: Egon. It means nothing to anyone, but at least the merchants will be safe for the time being.

* * *

“Too bad you weren’t Sea-Born,” Vasco laments after their daily spar the next morning. The wistfulness in his voice makes Alex glance up. “I’d not mind fighting beside you regularly, is all.” It’s only been just under a week in New Serene, and Alex has gotten accustomed to having Vasco nearby. They go to the tavern, share stories (usually Alex being more forthcoming, especially once he’s had a bit to drink), start off the mornings training. This is a reminder that as soon as he fulfills Admiral Cabral’s cryptic orders, Vasco will be out with the next tide. Alex tries not to think about it. Enjoy what he has in the moment. Asking for more will be like asking the tide to stop its relentless back and forth on the shores.

“Alas, I’m just a member of the Merchant Congregation.” Alex feigns helplessness, shrugging with his hands in the air, rather than voice any of this.

Vasco has his feet up on a settee, another book in his lap. “Maybe. But you’re good with records. And getting information.” His fingers absently stroke the book binding. Alex tears his gaze away to see Vasco watching him, intense and calm all at once. How he manages to be study in contradiction often leaves Alex reeling. He nods,  _ go on, go on _ , he thinks. “I’m Sea-Given.” Vasco slouches just slightly, just enough to show that this is a point of contention for him. “I’ve had no say in the matter, so I make the best of it.” He stretches out his arms, holds his tattooed hands up before his face, then sighs and drops them back into his lap. “The Admirals keep files on us: Sea-Born or Given, rank, skills, markings, you name it. And for the Sea-Given, their files…”

He steeples his fingers together. Looks away from Alex. Presses his lips together and stares up at the ceiling. Whatever it is, it’s killing him. Alex reaches out, touches his leg just a moment, just enough for Vasco to turn his moody grey eyes on him. “Vasco, do you need me to get your file?” The captain nods. He’s proud: he’s earned everything he has through sheer determination and iron will. He’d rather sail through a hundred hurricanes, to the ends of the world, than ask for help like this. “What will be in it?” Alex asks.

Vasco’s voice is breathy and the tension almost too hard for him to control. “My real name.”

Of course his real name isn’t Vasco, the way Jonas’s name was actually Celestin Fontaine. None of the Sea-Given have the names they were born with; and yet, the Nauts still retain records. Vasco’s gloomy as the sky during a drizzle when Alex asks why bother keeping records once they're off with the Nauts. “Because they’re not just records. They’re receipts,” Vasco says. “Sea-Born is one thing. There’s no contesting that, you’re born on a ship or not. But the Sea-Given are given for any number of reasons.”

This is the most Vasco has ever opened up to him, and Alex holds his breath. 

“Sometimes a family has more mouths than it can feed. And often, they’re Congregation children offered to settle debts.” He closes his eyes. The inking does not extend to his lids yet, and his dark lashes rest on his cheeks, pale beneath the indelible markings. “I don’t know my real family, and hence, my real name.”

“What will happen once you do?”

Vasco’s brows knit together heavily and he glowers at Alex. “I haven’t thought much beyond just the finding out. I thought maybe once making Captain I’d learn more, but alas.”

“Maybe once you make Admiral…?”

“I’m tired of waiting. If you learned that you could have been someone else, could have had a different life, wouldn’t you want to know?”

Vasco rarely shows the capacity to be vulnerable, but this side of him doesn’t surprise Alex at all. He’s seen the way the captain cares for his crew. The sea has depths no man has been to, and in it, strange creatures and maybe even hidden cities. If Vasco is capable of great strength of body and will, he can also be capable of great vulnerability and emotion. Many of those strange and wonderful creatures remain in the depths for their own safety; perhaps that is what happens with Vasco’s feelings.

A frisson of excitement flutters in Alex’s belly. His position affords him many privileges, but freely entering Naut territory, at least when not accompanied by one, is not one of them.

It takes some creativity to first finagle his way out of Constantin’s dinner party the next night; and second, to smuggle the tavern’s nightly drink delivery into the correct warehouse and ‘accidentally’ let a few drops of a sleeping draught spill into the bottles. He wears Vasco’s coat and hat and tries not to let the clinging scent of the captain and the ocean drive him mad. He leans against an outer wall in the moonlight, head down, arms crossed. No one questions him there. He feels the edges of Vasco’s cuffs, lightly fingers the brass buttons and embroidery.

He peeks in and when he sees the Nauts slumped over crates or lying on the floor, he slips into the warehouse. He is no stranger to acquiring information and using it, but sneaking about a moonlit Naut warehouse fills him with jittering nerves. They’re allies; they do what they need to coexist in a mutually beneficial relationship. What Alex is doing now hardly classifies as  _ mutually _ beneficial.

It hits him hard as he stands there, one drawer open, and a faint light glimmering from his fingertips so he can see: he will do anything for Vasco. He may even need to declare himself Sea-Given someday, just so he can hold to the promise he’s made to himself.

He slips the folder into his coat and holds it to his chest the whole way home. His heart pounds against Vasco’s past, against Vasco’s true identity. He bears that which is dearest to the captain, and that makes his deceit worth it.

At home, Vasco waits in the formal front sitting room. A fire crackles in the hearth, the only light in the room. It outlines him, illuminates him, and when he turns his head and glances at Alex out of the corner of his eye, his profile is mostly shadowed. The tattoo lines blend into the darkness; his hair is loose about his shoulders. He could be anyone in this moment.

The folder slides out of Alex’s coat with a whisper, and he wordlessly hands it over. He shrugs out of Vasco’s coat and drapes it over the banister, then sits on the bottom steps. His heart pounds, his pulse races through his veins and questions burn his lips. He imagines a sizzle when he licks his lips nervously.

Vasco accepts it reverently, or fearfully; he holds it lightly, as if it will bite him. He spends several quiet moments staring at the folio in his lap, fingers playing with the edges. He leans his head back, eyes closed, breath hissing in and out of his nostrils.

This moment belongs to Vasco. Alex remains silent, crunched on the bottom step, forgotten in his own home. To move would be to alert Vasco that he’s not alone, to hasten an already difficult choice. 

Before he can choose, Vasco flips open the folder with the rustle of paper as crisp and dry as autumn leaves skittering on cobblestone streets. Only his silvery eyes move as he scans the page. He’s as still as a painting, as deep as the ocean itself. When he lets out his held breath in a slow hiss, closes the folder with a gentle rustle, turns to see Alex watching him, it’s startling to see him alive and moving.

“So. You wouldn’t happen to know anyone named D’Arcy, would you?”

Alex furrows his brow. “That’s a Congregation name. I think I recall the D’Arcy family at court.”

“Nobles?”

“Yes, why?”

Vasco looks away. Too late Alex realizes his eyes are shimmering in the firelight. “Because that’s my family. I’m Leandre D’Arcy.”

Alex stifles his gasp. He looks away from Vasco’s face. In another lifetime, he and Vasco may have grown up at court together. In another lifetime, they could have been friends. In another life, Vasco would have grown up with access to the Academy, to University, to diplomatic training and fine meals and, with his looks, the capacity to bed anyone he wished. Alex tries to imagine him without his myriad of tattoos and can’t. He was born as Leandre D’Arcy; but he was born to be Vasco.

But he doesn’t tell him any of this. He offers a shaky smile, an offer to help however he can, but they both know that there may be no undoing this news. He climbs his steps. He closes his bedroom door. He lies awake long hours later, listening, and not hearing Vasco’s boots tromping up. 

The next morning, Vasco’s door is open again. His bed hasn’t been slept in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Coleridge's _Rime of the Ancient Mariner_: He went like one who has been stunned and is of sense forlorn... 
> 
> _Rime_ is one of my all time favorite poems, so I do take a lot of inspiration from it throughout this!


	11. A Sadder and a Wiser Man

_ A Sadder and a Wiser Man _

“Cousin!” Constantin’s cry is a warble through the staid audience chamber. He hops out of his seat and nearly bowls Alex over with a hug. “It’s been too long! What have you been up to? What news of the city?” he asks. His cheeks are rosy and his eyes bright as he leads Alex out of the chamber, and up to his private sitting room. He orders lunch brought, and reminds his servants that, aside from food and drink, he’s not to be disturbed.

“Come, tell me everything,” he says once a cold luncheon has been served. 

Alex laughs. “There’s not much to say, truly. Piles of correspondence so high that it doesn’t matter how much I finish in one day, because it’ll just be the same the next. It’s endless, as infinite as…”

“As the sea?” Constantin asks, and his sly grin makes Alex’s cheeks burn. And then Constantin laughs, too loud for his room, but it’s nice to see him happy after all the years under his father’s stern thumb.

“As soon as the Admiral is ready for him, he’ll be off. It does no good to form attachments.” Alex keeps his tone light, neutral. He’s a professional. He’s had lovers before, some who are gone the next day, others who stick around for a few weeks, perhaps a month. It’s always discreet, always professional. He has no illusions of things lasting. Attachments make for weak diplomats.

Stunning Naut captains make for weak knees.

“I suppose you’re right,” Constantin says with a momentary frown, that is soon replaced by a sunny grin. “I did get wind of some extortion scheme being cleared up. I suppose you are to thank for that.”

“I had help.”

“All the same.” Constantin raises his wine glass in a mock toast. “I feel the city has been stabilized for the time being, and for that I thank you.”

After lunch Alex meanders down to the library and starts digging through the Congregation’s records. Sunlight streams through the tall windows and the tiny dust motes floating in the air sparkle. It’s easy to think it’s something magical, rather than just simple tricks of sunlight. The light is warm on his back, and lunch heavy in his stomach, and De Courcillon finds him asleep at his work table hours later. The angle of light has shifted, and Alex’s neck is stiff. He gets up, creaking like a docked ship in the harbor.

“Looking into our history on the island I see?” De Courcillon asks. 

Alex nods. “Just trying to see which families came from the continent and may still be here. So I can follow up,” he adds. He clutches a small paper with his scribbled notes. What he’s doing is completely normal; why he’s doing it would raise curiosity. “Let me know if you have any errands you need run,” he offers.

De Courcillon’s face lights up, and within a moment he’s given Alex a list of things he’d like done to assist with his research, ‘if he finds the time’. Alex will never find the time to do everything that needs doing, but he doesn’t say this; he nods and promises to do what he can. It’s noncommittal, pleasant, and above all, diplomatic.

All in all, it’s been a good day, even if he hasn’t seen Vasco. It’s better that way, really; since discovering his true identity, Vasco has been quiet and moody. He’s taken to dueling the Coin Guards at the barracks in the mornings, rather than practicing with Alex. If their paths do cross mid-morning, Vasco’s shirt clings to his sweaty body and tendrils of hair curl around his face. He offers a terse nod of greeting and doesn’t meet Alex’s eyes.

He got what he wanted, and it’s made him miserable.

Alex is a diplomat, and seeing to the needs of his diplomatic allies is his job. He heads out into the crisp autumn afternoon, ignoring the disapproving stare of his uncle’s statue by ducking down the first side street he finds. He follows the call of the gulls toward the Port District. His heart beats faster, but he won’t find Vasco… D’Arcy? Vasco, here. He takes another couple of turns until he finds the shop stall he’s looking for. He speaks with the attendant; she’s displeased with her master and has very few complimentary things to say about him. 

“Why do you ask?” she says suddenly. Her cheeks redden.

“As the newly appointed Legate, it is my duty to learn of the practices of our business owners from those employed by them.” His half-truth is smooth as aged brandy. “Your candid commentary will not reach Bastien D’Arcy’s ears,” he promises, and reassures her with a few coins for her pains. 

“If that’s the case…” She covers the coins with her palm and slides the money toward her. “If your Excellency has the time, I’d suggest checking out Hikmet.”

Fortune smiles upon him; he’s received a letter from the governor of Hikmet just today, asking him to come for introductions.

He takes dinner at the tavern that night and invites Kurt along. Vasco’s already there, a drink on his table and a scowl on his face, but he still waves them both over and listens while Alex discusses his impending departure. Kurt agrees to come along and scout out the guards of Hikmet, but Vasco remains moodily quiet, staring down his straight, sharp nose into his half-empty mug of ale. When they walk out and head through the streets, he has none of his confident swagger.

When they arrive at the residence, Alex blocks entry to the door. Vasco finally looks at him, irritation written on his face amongst his tattoo markings. Sighing, he shifts his weight on one leg, arms crossed over his chest.

“Do you intend to mope the entire way to Hikmet?” Alex asks.

“I didn’t realize I would be expected to accompany you,” Vasco says. It stings, but Alex has spent a lifetime learning not to take things personally.

“It was my way of saying that you’re invited.” Alex watches Vasco’s face and finds nothing he can read. “Your brother is on the island,” he says after a moment. At that Vasco’s eyes go wide and his mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. Kind of like a fish out of water, desperate and unable to do anything.

Alex leaves the captain grasping for answers on the front stoop.

* * *

The horizon is still violet blue in the west, with stars still twinkling when they head out the next morning. Alex tries to be bright and cheerful, but pre-dawn is well before his usual rising time. He settles for being the butt of Kurt and Vasco’s jokes, if only because he appreciates hearing Vasco. That, and he hasn’t had nearly enough tea or coffee yet to be awake enough to fire back.

The merchant caravan takes them along the West Road. The sun rising behind them casts long shadows ahead on their path. The day starts off cool, but warms up as the sun climbs in the sky. Kurt regales them with stories of the Guard, but never talks about his own training. He tells stories about training Constantin, and about what it took to track him down before their departure. Vasco tells the story of his first hurricane, and of the time he helped another ship off a reef. He recalls every detail of his life as a Naut, but his eyes are hollow and stare off down the road while he speaks.

They stop for the evening, and their Guard escort sets a perimeter and builds a fire. They argue over watch rotations until Kurt steps in to mediate. Alex finds Vasco standing on a hillock outside of the perimeter of camp, staring out over the fields of tall grasses. He holds one ungloved hand over the thigh-high grass and tugs the tie out of his hair. A cooler breeze blows across the land and the grass ripples and undulates. Fingers of wind card through his hair and he tilts his head back, inhaling deeply.

“It reminds me of the ocean,” Vasco says suddenly, eyes still closed, hands still feeling the gentle brush of tall grass. “The feel of the wind. The way the grass moves.”

“You miss being on a ship,” Alex guesses. 

“With every bit of my being.” Vasco glances over at him; the wind catches his hair and whips it in front of his face and he looks ethereal, almost wild standing in the open like this. “And then I think what I’d say to my…” His mouth works around the shape of the word-- “My brother. If I’d say I missed knowing him, missed those years on the continent, when so much of me is tied to the sea and  _ aches _ being away from it like this.”

Alex approaches cautiously, like one might a wild animal, or a fantastic fae creature that could frighten easily. “You don’t have to say anything to him. When you’re sailing, you plan for good weather, right?” Vasco nods, curious and cautiously amused. “And you plan for the bad as well, I assume?” Another nod from Vasco. “But you can’t predict which you’ll have. You just have to go with the wind and the waves.”

Vasco’s stance softens and he turns to face Alex. His intelligent eyes search Alex’s face in the gathering dusk. Alex wants to look away, but he submits to the examination. “You’d have made a great Naut,” he says wistfully.

A small snort escapes Alex. “Even if I nearly got washed overboard?”

“We all do at one time or another. Comes with the territory.” 

They settle next to the fire and eat bowls of stew with hard bread. The wine is watered down and mostly tasteless, but conversation with Vasco makes up for it. “I haven’t thanked you for helping me,” Vasco says suddenly before they retire to their separate tents. “You’ve gone to great pains, and I’ve… well, been a pain.” He offers a sheepish grin, so out of place on his assured and angular face. He looks up through his dark lashes.

“We haven’t made it to Hikmet. Your brother could be a right wanker. Don’t thank me yet.”

Vasco’s laugh splits the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from the conclusion of Ancient Mariner: He went like one who has been stunned and is of sense forlorn; a sadder and a wider man he rose the morrow morn.  
\--  
Thank you so much for all the support and kind comments! It's been a weird week, I lost a couple of days with a migraine and recovering from it, but I'm feeling far better and ready to write more "Naut-y" chapters ;)


	12. The Calm Before

_The Calm Before_

Even a smitten diplomat has to keep his priorities in order, and so Alex’s first stop in Hikmet is brunch with Governor Burhan of the Bridge Alliance. He listens as the governor discusses the history of Teer Fradee’s oldest settlement and nods with feigned interest in his thinly veiled commentary about Theleme. What Theleme calls heresy, the Alliance calls science, and neither nation can agree to disagree. So long as their bickering doesn’t upset the standing of the Merchant Congregation on the island, Alex is fine with it. He even agrees to assist in tracking down a missing party of Alliance scholars ‘if he happens across them’.

He retires to the flat that the Congregation has secured for him just off of Al Saad square. He expects Vasco to be pacing holes into the polished wooden floor, but he’s reclining on a sofa, staring at the paneled ceiling with a pensive expression on his face. “I’m not interrupting?” Alex asks, clicking the door closed behind him, and out of habit, weaving a quick locking spell over the mechanisms. The best thieves can pick any lock, but will need more than good equipment and luck to break into his quarters.

“I never have the luxury of just lying around thinking,” Vasco says. His hands are folded on his chest, his cream-colored shirt bunched up under his fingers and barely an inch of smooth skin showing between the hem of his shirt and the waistband of his fitted breeches. “You can accuse a Naut of any sort of villainy, and odds are there’s going to be some truth to it. You can  _ never  _ accuse a Naut of idleness.” A small grin plays along his lips. “And a Naut captain reclining on his arse when there’s work to be done? More blasphemous than anything Theleme can come up with.”

He’s almost jovial and Alex can’t help but smile, especially when Vasco sits up and gestures toward the wingback chair next to the sofa. “My crew would laugh me to the depths if they saw me like this,” he says. Leaning forward, he rests his elbows on his knees. His hair falls over his shoulders. “Is this what growing up noble was like?” he asks after a moment. His sea-grey eyes watch Alex, the sunlight catching the flecks of green and blue depending on which way Vasco focuses.

Alex does not answer right away. There’s a dangerous undercurrent in Vasco’s question, and the wrong answer--or the right one, ill-phrased--will pull him under. “In some ways, yes,” he begins. He’s well aware of his privileged upbringing: the finest tutors in all subjects; consistent weapons training, though nothing nearly as disciplined as Vasco has endured to become the expert fencer he is. There have been dancing lessons and the finest fashions and the brightest parties. 

But there have been the expectations to exceed, when living up to them is not enough. There have been the threats of disinheritance and the need to keep his passions discreet. Constantin is the heir, so his disappointments and dalliances are dealt with quietly. And though Alex is the Prince’s own nephew, he harbors no illusions that he is irreplaceable.

“It was a fair wind that brought us together, Alexandre De Sardet,” Vasco says, face much softer, though Alex is embarrassed that he’s been so candid. “There’d be nights I’d be swabbing the decks and think about lazing in a smoking lounge. Sometimes I’d catch the lash and dream about being pampered by servants.” He glances away, embarrassed in his own right.

“I can’t picture you catching a lashing.” 

“Only happened a couple of times when I was young. I learned quickly that I wouldn’t get anywhere in the guild with a smart mouth and a fiery attitude.” He leans back, arms spread across the back of the sofa, looking almost inviting. “Naut life isn’t easy, ‘specially when you’re on the lower rungs of the climb. But sounds like you’ve had your own issues.”

“Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of pampered twits about the court,” Alex reassures him. “Plenty who aren’t taught any lessons, or who never learn the ones they need to.”

“Oh, there’s learning done in that case,” Vasco says. “It just comes too late when there’s no room for improvement.”

“How do you do it?” Alex asks suddenly. Vasco tilts his head to the side, silent yet quizzical. “Manage to turn the worst into something worthwhile.”

“The guild is a difficult master, but the sea is a harsher mistress.” Vasco’s expression is serious. Alex allows himself to look, really look, at the lines that mark Vasco’s face. Vasco remains relaxed, even turning his face slightly for Alex to get a better view. “Every marking is a time I’ve challenged her and won.”

“You make it sound so poetic.” Alex is not teasing; he’s trying to retain his composure in the face of temptation, as Vasco all but invites him into his arms.

“A captain needs a hobby. May as well be poetry.”

“You’re joking.” 

A perfectly arched eyebrow. Long fingers slowly caressing the back of the sofa. “ Sea and love both share a bitter bite. The sea seizes and love seizes, love scalds us and the sea scalds us--”

“For neither are free from tempest might,” Alex finishes. 

They stare at one another for an endless moment. Breath held, the calm before the storm. 

Vasco licks his lips. “I could go on,” he offers.

“Please do.” Blood roars in his ears like crashing waves, and his heart feels like a crab skittering against his breastbone. He is jealous of the sea, of this mistress Vasco has courted and appeased. He covets the markings upon Vasco’s face. He wants to mark him, to make him his. 

“You’ve seen me handle a storm.” A statement. A warning.

“I’m hardly a storm.”

“No, you’re more than a storm.” Vasco leans forward. Sinuous. Lazy. Predatory. Teasing. Inviting. Everything Alex has ever wanted and never been allowed to have. He almost chokes on a breath, throat closing up as Vasco begins to rise from his seat, those wildly grey eyes fixed on his, unable to look away. “Remember that old Naut trick I told you about, to get the drowned breathing again?” he asks. Alex nods once. Vasco leans closer.

“Oye, Greenblood!” Kurt calls, shoving the door open. “I think I know where your man is at!” He stands in the doorway, looking between Vasco and Alex. His eyes narrow, and then he has to struggle to maintain his serious expression. “Ideally we’d have to hurry, but…”

Alex runs a shaking hand through his hair, clears his throat, reminds himself to key his locking spell to lock out Kurt next time. He licks his lips and flicks nervous eyes at Vasco, who has sat back once more, barely frazzled by what nearly happened. But there is the slightest pink tinge to his cheeks, and Alex counts it a victory, no matter how small. 

“Ready, Captain?” he asks, all business once more.

A wry grin touches Vasco’s lips. “If you’re the one asking, then yes.”


	13. Thank You

_Thank You_

Kurt’s a Guard Captain, but he’s also a decent sleuth and knows how to follow the money, which is what he’s done to locate Vasco’s brother. Not all noble families of the Merchant Congregation are scrupulous when it comes to managing their wealth. Alex racks his brain, but can’t recall much about Bastien D’Arcy, just that they’ve crossed paths at court. Very few rumors carry the D’Arcy name, and Alex wonders if it’s because the family shuffled him off to Teer Fradee a few years back.

There is noticeable tension in Vasco’s wake as he follows Kurt through the streets of Hikmet; though he walks with his back straight, chin up, and tricorn hat perched atop his head, cool grey eyes scanning the streets, his step is stiffer and jaw clenched tight. His hand is never far from the hilt of his sword, and the longer they walk, the tenser he becomes. Following Kurt’s purposeful stride appears nearly unbearable for him. He’s so accustomed to leading, that to follow like this must be painful.

The plaintive cries of their quarry echo from a nearby alley, and that’s all the motivation Vasco needs to push ahead of Kurt and rush in. “He got a personal stake in this?” Kurt asks. He hefts his huge sword off his back. “Nauts usually like to keep the peace.”

“Maybe he’s feeling generous,” Alex suggests, and follows them into the alley.

Swirls of black and violet wrap around his arms and hands, and he fires holding spells at the three well-dressed men cornering a disheveled noble. Vasco has the fourth pinned to a wooden beam with a sword through her coat. Vasco wheels around, breathing more heavily than he should be after a fight. It’s barely enough to call a fight, really. His cheeks are redder, his eyes brighter, than Alex has seen. He exudes power and excitement, a wave about to break upon a shore.

“Bastien D’Arcy?” Alex asks, and the frightened young man nods. He slinks between the captive men, eyeing the lines of Alex’s magic twining around their limbs, holding them rigid in mid-shout, mid-swing. “Are you hurt?”

“N--No,” Bastien stammers. He backs away from his attackers, and Alex loosens his magical hold.

“Would anyone care to tell me what is going on here?” he asks. He reels back in the shadowy sinews with one hand, while tiny violet-white bolts of lightning sizzle at the fingertips of his other hand as a warning.

“This isn’t your fight,” the woman says. Vasco hasn’t released her yet, but she doesn’t struggle. She watches them all with narrowed eyes. “We just do what we’re paid for.”

“As the Legate of the Congregation, I’d say the wellbeing of a merchant does involve me, and does make this my fight,” Alex tells her. He glances over at Vasco, but his eyes are on Bastien.

“Thank you, Legate,” Bastien says. The pitiful tone of his voice has left, now that he has Kurt and Vasco’s swords to hide behind. He crosses his arms over his chest and does a bad job of hiding his contemptuous grin.

“I’m guessing no one told you he borrowed a hefty sum to pay off gambling debts?” One of the men has sheathed his sword, wisely deciding not to spill blood. But his sneer shows enough what he feels for Bastien, and Alex recognizes it as the same tone as that of the associate in New Serene. “We’re just coming to collect on those.”

Vasco releases his hostage and sheaths his sword. “What’s he owe?”

“You don’t have to--” Alex starts, but Vasco has his purse out and is pouring coins into his palm. With each  _ clink _ Bastien’s eyes sparkle more greedily, but Vasco isn’t even looking at his brother. And his brother isn’t protesting the captain’s actions. 

“A payday is a payday,” one of the debt collectors says with a shrug, and leads the rest out of the alley. 

When they are all gone Bastien crumples like a piece of wet bread. “I surely would have been done for without you,” he says, voice trembling. “To whom do I owe my rescue?”

“Legate Alexandre De Sardet. This is Kurt, a captain in the Coin Guard, stationed in New Serene. And this--”

“Captain Vasco of the Nauts.” Vasco appraises Bastien anew, summing him up like he might do for a new member of his crew. His face is devoid of any expression, though Alex has seen that cold stare before. Alex was on the receiving end of it before they left the continent. “Take care not to run into further trouble,” he advises, leveling his gaze at Bastien the way he might level a sword. His commanding presence fills the narrow alley; his tattoos stand out in sharp relief against his light skin, and though his stance is relaxed enough, only a fool would try to underestimate him.

Bastien has proven himself a fool, but in this, at least, he is decent. “Thank you, Captain. I’ll send my thanks to your guild,” he says. He brushes off his shirt, neatens his hair, and gives a slight bow to Alex before leaving them alone. Kurt furrows his brow and stares at Vasco, but Alex nudges his elbow and shakes his head just enough for Kurt to notice.

There’s little other reason to remain in Hikmet, and they’re off with the next merchant caravan to New Serene, and a list of errands from Governor Burhan. Vasco’s stride is sure, and sometimes, Alex thinks he might catch him bouncing on the balls of his feet when they take time to walk. Golden warmth soaks into his shoulders, though the crisp breeze of early autumn stings his nose. The air holds a sweetness Alex remembers from childhood, before the Malichor took hold in earnest, before Serene became death’s foyer.

No time feels quite right to broach the topic of Bastien’s timely rescue, but seeing Vasco’s relaxed swagger is enough for now. He’s deathly curious, of course, which he finally tells Vasco once they’ve set camp and they have some time alone.

“You didn’t tell him your name.” Alex keeps his voice low. 

Vasco glances around, then waves for Alex to follow him a short ways away from the main camp. Out here, away from the sooty streetlamps, the stars shine like gems. A wide, white scar slashes across the sky, as if a giant sliced at it and left behind stardust. The night is chilly, just enough to give Alex gooseflesh along his arms. Vasco wears his hair loose, his coat hanging open and his shirt untucked and hanging over the waistband of his breeches. “Why didn’t you tell him who you were?” Alex ventures again. He jams his hands into his pockets and gives Vasco a sidelong glance.

“I did.” Vasco’s smile hides nothing; his tattoos aren’t a mysterious mask, and his eyes, so warm and soft in the starlight as he shifts to face Alex. “When I saw him? What he’d gotten himself into, and didn’t seem at all grateful to get out of? I realized I was exactly who I wanted to be.” He steps in closer. “I’m not Leandre D’Arcy; I never was, and I never want to be. I’m Vasco. A Naut, and a damned proud one at that.”

“You did seem a lot more confident after that,” Alex notes. He shuffles an inch forward.

“Because I have nothing to prove, least of all to myself.” He leans forward just a bit. His feet follow. 

Alex allows himself to grin. “That’s not going to stop you from seeking out an admiralty, and we both know it.”

“All in good time,” Vasco says with a teasing smile. “For now, I do want to thank you. You didn’t have to help.”

“I wanted to.”

“Which is why I appreciate it all the more.” He moves in a fraction of an inch more. “May I thank you?”

This close, Alex can realize Vasco is just a little taller than him. That Vasco looking down his straight nose, even just a little bit, sets his heart racing, and that Vasco’s eyes smolder in the starlight, that he’s close enough for Alex to feel his warm breath on his lips. He can realize that Vasco isn’t moving, is waiting for Alex to consent. He swallows and nods. “You may,” he chokes out.

Vasco angles his head down and kisses Alex lightly, gently, one hand curving around the back of his head, fingers weaving in his hair, one thumb brushing over his cheek. Alex kisses him back, trying to be just as soft, but he’s hungry, he’s thirsty, he’s been parched for this for so long. He pulls Vasco to him and kisses back, deeply, but not longingly, because Vasco is everything he’s ever wanted and nothing he’s ever had.

“Thank  _ you,” _ he gasps in a moment coming up for air, and then his lips are locked with Vasco’s once again. He doesn’t even notice the stars shifting in the night sky, and doesn’t care when he wakes up in Vasco’s arms, in the dew-soaked grass.


	14. Marks

_Marks_

The smell of New Serene greets him, lets him know it’s time to return to reality. Alex wrinkles his nose at the scent of brackish water and rotting seaweed as they cross the West Bridge. Carts have stirred up dust in the streets, and the din of the city can be heard from here. When he crosses the bridge, the dreamy limbo of travel will be done. He’ll be the Legate once more. And now that Vasco knows who he is--who he’s always been--he’ll return to the port and see about getting his ship back.

In the presence of their company Vasco is professional, largely for Alex’s sake, he guesses. Nauts come and go like the tides and have no need to fear for their own reputations when it comes to lovers. But because they come and go like the tides, most nobles are cautious. If one were to bed a Naut, it would be a fun tryst, nothing more. 

Alex doesn’t want a tryst. He wants more.

“Fair winds,” he bids Vasco as they prepare to part. He stands straight and holds out his hand. 

“If I weren’t going your way, I’d accept the well wishes.” Vasco takes his hand, squeezes once, and drops it before falling in step with Alex and Kurt through the late afternoon in New Serene. They part ways when they reach Orsay Square, Kurt heading to the barracks. “And  _ here _ is where I’ll take my leave,” Vasco tells him. “Will your cousin have a feast in your honor tonight, or do you have something else in mind?”

Oh, the things he has in mind, but Alex just pastes on a diplomatic grin. “Perhaps more poetry,” he suggests, and his heart squeezes when Vasco’s mouth quirks up in a grin.

If Alex was road-weary before, he has new energy as he nearly skips to the steps up to the Governor’s palace. The two stationed guards give perfunctory bows as he passes, and he pauses when he hears someone calling after him. He turns, and a young woman catches his eye. Her step falters only once, but she strides confidently toward the stairs. “Wait!” she calls to Alex. “I must speak with the chief of your village!” 

The two guards cross their pikes, barring her entry, and she stares between the crossed metal and wood. Her hazel eyes implore Alex to intercede, even as the guards laugh at her halting accent and reference to Constantin as their chief. “Stand down, soldiers,” Alex barks. The one on the right looks back at him, and Alex descends a few steps. “Perhaps I was not clear?”

“We have orders. No islanders in the cities without special permission,” he says, and turns back toward the woman.

“And as the Legate of the Congregation, and cousin to the governor, I am granting her special permission.” Alex descends and shoves their pikes aside. “Stand down now, men.” He smiles, the warm inviting grin his mother said made him look approachable. The one that leads foes to take his warmth for softness, only to be thrown off when Alex can negotiate with the best of them. “Come, I will present you to the governor,” he says. He offers his arm, but she does not take it.

“I am Siora, daughter of Queen Bladnid; my mother is the chief of our village, and I’ve come as their emissary.” Siora’s speech sounds rehearsed, and her freckled cheeks are tinged pink. “Thank you, for bringing me in.”

Siora follows him inside, taking in the black and white marbled floor, the servants polishing away specks of dirt; the deep crimson silk carpets, and shining brass doorknobs. Alex hasn’t heard anything about the native islanders. But he has heard overtones of desperation in voices. The streets of Serene were full of it: people calling out begging for a cure, moaning in pain. His own mother, bidding him farewell.

No matter where he goes, desperation will follow.

Constantin greets them with his usual exuberance, even if he does appear a touch paler than usual. “Who is this fascinating person you have brought?” he asks, barely pausing for a hello. Alex is familiar with his facial expression: he’s lean and hungry, and his greenish eyes sweep over Siora.

“Siora has come as diplomatic emissary of her village,” Alex announces and fixes his eyes on Constantin.  _ Back down, _ he thinks, and after a moment, Constantin’s smile shifts to something more inviting.

“Has she then? But… my.” Constantin pauses, and the look on his face is genuine confusion. “You… almost look like you could be related.”

Alex takes a moment to really  _ look _ at Siora. They both have golden-hazel eyes, but that’s common enough. Auburn hair, again nothing out of the ordinary. He’s about to voice his irritation with Constantin when Siora turns and he spies the mark on the side of her face: greyish, bark-like, crawling up the side of her neck, reaching along her jaw, and splattered on her cheek.

Words abandon him. He’s fought this mark his whole life: from the bullies in his schoolroom, to the social climbers insinuating it was the first sign of the Malichor, or that it might herald that Alex himself brought the disease; to the priests of Theleme who have intimated that he is touched by the darkness and the mark can only be burned away. It’s part of him, and not a part he cares for. If Naut tattoos tell stories, Alex’s birthmark invites speculation and rumor.

“Come, Siora, tell me what brings you to New Serene.” Constantin takes his seat and invites Siora and Alex to join him. Siora explains the situation with the Bridge Alliance, and her people being at war with the ‘lions’.

“We need your village’s protection. We need help. I’d not have come if we were not desperate,” she finishes. She bows her head and stares at her hands. 

“This is troubling.” Constantin steeples his fingers under his chin and for one moment looks like his father. “Your village is at war with our allies; we cannot support you without being seen as betraying them.”

Siora nods, lips pressed together and face flushed. “I see. Thank you, chief-governor--”

“What about a ceasefire?” 

Siora and Constantin both stare at Alex. Constantin strokes his chin. “This is where you excel, cousin,” Constantin says at last, with a half smile. “I just authorize the paperwork.” 

It’s not like that at all, and they both know it, but Alex is too tired to argue. “Siora, I will come to your village in the next day to discuss terms of a ceasefire with your queen, and will send word ahead to the commanders of the Bridge Alliance that I wish to discuss with them as well.” His mind works quickly, creating lists of what he needs to do, if he’s to successfully negotiate this. 

“This is a wise course of action,” Constantin says with a nod. “I don’t suppose I can persuade either of you to stay for dinner?”

It’s a kind offer, but Siora doesn’t trust them enough to agree, and Alex feigns exhaustion. He promises to meet Siora at the North Gate and instructs the guards to allow her safe passage. Theleme and the Bridge Alliance aren’t the only parties on the island; even if those nations can’t agree, Alex is determined that the Merchant Congregation will remain as diplomatic as possible.

He returns home, leaning against the door and closing his eyes once he’s inside. The silence is a blessing after the noise of the cities and the constant noise in his own head: letters he’s composing, half-remembered songs his mother may have sung to him, and a certain poem he’d learned only in passing, but now marks his heart.

After the openness of the road his home is cramped and stifling. By the time he reaches the top of the steps he’s shed his coat, let his sword belt fall with a thump and a clang, and loosened the collar of his rumpled shirt. He pauses, heart pounding, as he nears the doors of the bedrooms. His lips are dry and his cheeks warm. Just hours ago he woke up in the high, dewy grass, damp and cuddled against the Captain. And just hours before that, he and Vasco kissed under the stars. The walls close around him and the ceiling presses down, and the weight of polite society waits for both of them outside. 

Vasco’s tattoos mark him as a Naut, and a damned good Naut captain at that. There is nowhere he can go where anyone will mistake him for anything other than what he is. Kurt’s scars tell a story, but what that story is, remains a mystery. And now Siora, with her grey-brown bark-like marking, so similar to his own. Trembling, Alex’s fingers ghost over the mark on his face. It doesn’t hurt. It’s not smooth. No cosmetic has ever been able to truly cover it, and all the gods know he’s tried.

And this is how Vasco finds him: standing alone at the top of the stairs, paralyzed by his own indecision and shame, fingers hovering over his birthmark. He’s not quite sure what to say, and Vasco doesn’t care. He takes Alex’s wrist and gently guides his hand down. He angles his head toward his own room, an invitation that Alex is at once too glad to accept and too mortified to decline. He’s not sure what to say when Vasco asks, “Rough afternoon?” so he just shrugs, and Vasco doesn’t press any further.

Instead, he reclines against a bolster and motions for Alex to join him. He curls one arm around Alex’s shoulders and picks up a book. He opens up to the page he’s marked, plants a small kiss atop Alex’s head, and reads. “ Those who fear the waters should stay within the shore’s sight; those who fear the pain that love procures should shun the flames when love endures.” His voice is smooth as a calm ocean, his hold a safe harbor.

“And both shall be safe from found and blight,” Alex finishes. He doesn’t flinch when Vasco’s fingertips brush over the side of his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just finished Greedfall last night and I'm DEAD. Ugh, so, so good. I promptly started up a new Alex/Vasco playthrough XD


	15. Good Intentions

_Good Intentions_

The Theleme ambassador in Serene used to say that the path to the eternal bonfire was littered with rose petals. It was one of the last things he said to Alex before he left Serene, and like always, Alex brushed it off. He’s never believed diplomacy is about intentions; it’s about each side getting some of what they want, and then him, managing the middle. What are they willing to give up to get what they need?

It’s always been easy with the Merchant Congregation and their allies. Everything depends on trade and the flow of coin. Alex has studied it until it’s part of him, written in his skin and bones and driving every word and thought he has. That is, until Vasco completely undid that. He doesn’t fault the captain at all, and he doesn’t fault himself, either. He’s a fine diplomat, but he’s also just a man, and a man has a heart in addition to his brains.

He navigates his responsibilities and his blossoming relationship with Vasco carefully, and Vasco wordlessly understands that work must come first in these initial days and weeks as the Legate. Past lovers have pouted and demanded his attentions at the expense of the fragile work in which he is involved; so for Vasco to keep his distance is at once refreshing and disconcerting. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Vasco tells him when Alex glances over his shoulder for the fourth or fifth time. His blue coat flaps in the wind. He’s tucked his gloves in his belt, and loosened the white cravat around his neck. His sword bumps against his leg as he walks and it doesn’t bother him. He’s relaxed, casual, and the smile he flashes is warm and friendly--not at all teasing, unlike the raised eyebrow Kurt throws his way.

After that, Vasco whistles any number of sea shanties to pass the time, but also to remind Alex that he’s still there. It’s a nice gesture, and it does set Alex’s mind at ease.

About them, at least, and just for the time being.

Alex learned early on to compartmentalize his mind and focus on the tasks at hand, but he’s never had to compartmentalize true feelings for another person, and balancing his focus on the proposed ceasefire and on Vasco has been difficult. Hearing his warbling whistle, knowing he’s there (and imagining his pursed lips and the way his mouth must move to produce such sound) helps. 

The road winds further into the forest, a dirt track in cool shade dappled with patches of sunlight. Copper leaves flitter down in the breeze, and out of the corner of his eye, Alex spies a deer--or the closest thing to a deer that this island can boast. The road to Hikmet was well-traveled and not much different from what he’s used to. This is something out of a fairy story.

“Don’t go soft on me, Greenblood,” Kurt says gruffly, though he’s hiding a smirk. He’s always teased Alex for his dreamier tendencies, but so long as Alex can continue to hold his own in a fight, Kurt doesn’t press it further. 

“I think I deserve a few minutes to appreciate the beauty of the place,” Alex retorts. He steps off the road and behind a few trees to relieve himself, and listens. There’s no call of birds, no hum of insects. The silence envelopes the wood and its wanderers, and a crawling sensation winds up his back. His magic roils within, unbidden, and slightly alarming--he’s always been able to control it, though now it buzzes in his veins and makes his hands hot as he hurries to finish his business before things get awkward.

The world around him is no longer alive; it’s like walking through a painting, everything flat and stiff and too bright. He can’t quite explain the change he feels, especially when Kurt and Vasco both seem unbothered. The darkness within grows the closer they get to Vedrad. “Can’t say I like this,” Vasco murmurs. He buttons up his coat; replaces his gloves, and checks his sword in its hilt. His grey eyes flick about the darkened wood.

His sword sings as he draws it from his scabbard, and Vasco is a blue blur as he wheels around. Alex’s power needs no additional encouragement, and he fires off a barrage of shadow strikes. “Things are about to get dicey,” Kurt mutters, and draws his own blade.

Siora calls up a shield to block Alex’s magic, and she is able to easily sidestep the two blades coming at her. “Peace,  _ renaigse _ ,” she snaps. 

“My apologies, Siora.” Alex’s heart pounds. His breath comes in deep gasps that don’t seem to fill his lungs, and there’s pressure in his head. “I’ve come to--”

“Too late,” she says with a trembling lip. “My mother has already led our clan up against the lions. Come!” She turns and runs, and before Alex can analyze what a poor move this may be, how it may look like they are joining against allies, his feet carry him after Siora.

“Introductions later?” Kurt asks. His armor jangles as he follows.

“If we’re not too late,” Alex calls. Claws squeeze his heart. Acid pumps in his legs and the ache in his chest isn’t from being short of breath. He hopes Siora is wrong. That they’re not too late, that they can still salvage something from the shreds of this.

But when he draws up short on the edge of the battlefield, the enormity, the sheer un-fix-ability of this crashes upon him.

He’s never seen anything he can’t fix, or at least smooth over.

Fires burn and crackle in patches across the clearing. Blackened tree branches claw for the sky, and charred grass curls upon itself. The setting sun paints the muddy field with red-orange streaks. And there could very well be plenty of actual blood mixed in there. And the bodies--oh, the bodies: so many of them, some indistinguishable as islander or Alliance, some pinned to the ground with spears, others with gaping grenade shrapnel wounds or red-black bullet holes. The air smells of burnt flesh, acrid and choking.

Bile roils in his stomach and he can’t swallow against the wave of nausea building up. He retches until he can’t retch anymore. His eyes water and sting, and his stomach twists until he can get nothing else up. Even Kurt, who’s used to carnage, is pale and dismayed, and Vasco’s jaw is tight and his face blank.

“Siora!” They all look up as a warrior with a painted face storms toward them. “Siora, where have you been? Why did you bring these  _ renaigse?” _ Her eyes are lightning, and the way she says  _ renaigse _ : if her voice is sharp as a blade, that tone is the killing twist. 

“I asked them for help with the lions, Eseld,” Siora explains, face pale beneath her freckles, voice trembling as she surveys the carnage. “Where is our mother? Why didn’t she wait?”

“For what? For you to bring three  _ renaigse _ to  _ save _ us?” Eseld’s voice trips venom. She storms off, and Siora follows.

Alex swallows against the bitterness in his throat, spits out the sourness from his mouth. His legs are jelly but he takes a step and doesn’t fall over. He takes another and remains upright. His mind partitions off his horror, and renews his focus. It’s too late for a ceasefire, and the scroll in his pack is as useless as all of the Malichor cures they’ve tried. The trick now is to assess what remains, and what he can do to stop things from getting worse.

Their boots squelch in the mud. Every sound is too high, too insistent: step, squelch, crackle of flame, keening cries of the dying. What’s done is done. Just don’t let it get worse. He pulls out his kerchief and covers his mouth and nose to sift out the ash in the air as he breathes; it does not escape him that the flakes of char floating on the breeze are plant matter and clothing scraps and human flesh and hair. He tells himself that the watering in his eyes is from the acrid stinging.

He’s a professional. He can handle this.

He can handle it until the first of Teer Fradee’s less pleasant creatures attacks them in a pack: hulking and black, larger than dogs, with bulky shoulders and snarling maws that spew spittle. A partition shifts in his mind: combat training takes over. Spell, fire, pivot out of the way. Remember the moves Kurt taught him, remember the finesse he requires when training with Vasco. 

Kurt moves mechanically, striking, pivoting, smashing with the hilt of his huge sword. He doesn’t call out orders or comments, as he would in training, because they’re not training: a fact of which Alex is at once frighteningly aware, but can’t dwell on. He stuns a creature, twirls out of the way, and Vasco lunges in, stabbing and slashing. They become numb within moments, and fight their way through another pack, and then another; what should have been a faster path has cost them time they do not have.

Over the snarls of the wolf-creatures, the moans of the dying carry on the wind. An anguished shriek pierces the air, and becomes a guttural wail. Alex runs toward it, toward Siora as she claps her hands to the blood-soaked earth and roots, like the tentacles of some vast beast, erupt from the dirt and begin constricting an Alliance soldier. The man’s begging turns into gurgling choking. “Where is my mother?” Tears stream down her soot-streaked face. Her hands are caked with mud and blood and she clenches them into fists at her side. Her sister stands at her side. “Tell me!” 

Clods of dirt drop off another root that begins winding around his neck. He’s wounded as it is, and losing the fight with Siora’s magic. “Siora, stop! You’ll kill him!” Alex gasps.

“And why shouldn’t I?” Her hazel eyes are reddened and puffy. “He’s a lion. They take our people and our land.”

The Alliance soldier turns glazed eyes up at Alex.  _ Help me, _ he mouths, but Siora turns her stare back on him. She holds up one dirty hand. She turns her wrist and the root writhes around him, immobilizing him. Her face twists into a mask of grief and hatred and the root barrels into his mouth, cutting off his cries as it snakes down his throat. His face is purple, eyes bulging. 

It is a terrible thing to behold.

“His death is on you,  _ renaigse.”  _ Eseld’s voice is harsh. “You may look like  _ on ol menawi _ but you are still one of them.” She spits on the fresh corpse. She glares at her sister.

“What… what can I do? To help?” Alex chokes out. His idea for a ceasefire sounded so grand yesterday. It was the civilized idea, one that anyone could agree to, and the terms he’d drafted sounded so fair when he’d proposed them in his letter. The ceasefire was stupid. He feels stupid, staring at the carnage that he could not have anticipated, let alone prevented.

He could take it if Eseld spat on him (hells, he may even deserve it). He could take it if she cursed him to the moon and back again. All of these things he can deal with. He has no idea how to react to Eseld’s harsh, contemptuous laughter. “Help? You don’t know the meaning of the word,” she tells him. “You know how to take what you want, or trick us into getting what you want. You have pretty words and good intentions, all so you can get what you want.”

She’s not wrong.

They make a small camp on the edge of the battlefield, near some old ruins that keep the wind out, and block the worst of the smells of battle. It doesn’t matter; no one is hungry, and though they’re all exhausted, sleep doesn’t come. Or if it does, it ends quickly once the nightmare visions start. 

“It’ll get easier, Greenblood,” Kurt reassures him with an awkward squeeze of his shoulder. “Not right away, but you’re made of hearty stuff. I’ve a feeling this isn’t the last of the carnage we’ll be seeing.” His voice is grim, and his stare sees through Alex, to something only he can see.

He’s curled up in his bedroll, staring at the embers of their tiny campfire when he hears Vasco’s footfalls nearing. Cold twists in his abdomen. This is his first failure, and it’s spectacular at that. He’s not sure he can manage what’s about to come. 

But Vasco sinks to the ground beside him, pulling his knees to his chest. “I remember the first time I lost a sailor,” he says quietly. “He balked at an order, and I got… well, I was downright cold to the boy and thought I’d put the fear of the sea into him. What I didn’t realize was that he was already afraid of the sea; and I’d just taught him to be afraid of me, too.”

“What happened?”

“He had a bad feeling about the situation, which he’d told me, but I thought I was right. Turns out even I can be wrong,” he says with a harsh chuckle. “He went overboard. There was no finding him, let alone saving him. I went back in the lifeboat in the morning, on calmer waters, didn’t find a trace.”

“What then?”

“He was the first I lost, but not the last. The sea takes what’s hers, after all. I learned that there are some things I can control, and some things I can’t, and even with the best of intentions, things can still capsize spectacularly.”

Alex can almost hear the smile in his voice, and while he still feels heavy and haunted, it helps to know he’s not alone. “Thank you, Vasco. I’m glad to have you around,” he says.

He is a shadow against the smoldering embers, little more than a shape in the dark. He reaches over and cards his fingers through Alex’s hair. “Though the sea calls to me in my sleep, I will honestly say I’m glad to be around.” Vasco’s touch is continuous, gentle, lulling as the waves, and soon sleep takes him.


	16. Mother

_Mother_

Splashes of orange and red brighten the constant grey that surrounds the makeshift campsite: grey bricks, overgrown with grey roots and the skeletons of grey leaves. Grey mist tumbles in through the glassless windows. Alex lays on the hard ground, achy and tired and his mouth dry and tasting like well-worn socks, staring at the color: a painting, a fresco. The splashes of color, the symbolism and shape over realism, indicate that this was not part of the initial structure.

Footsteps crunch toward them, but Kurt remains sleeping, floppy hat over his face. Vasco makes a grumbling noise before rolling over onto his stomach and pulling his coat over his tangled hair. Alex should worry, but he’s past that. He stiffly sits up, ruffling his own hair somewhat into place. A tiny hammer pounds inside his skull and he still feels nauseous. 

It’s Siora: her face still dirty, eyes still puffy, as if the night didn’t pass. She clears her throat. “You did not see me at my best last night.” Alex gestures for her to come closer, and eventually she does. He stands up and she joins him closer to the frescoes. “I see you found the paintings.” She keeps her voice low, mindful of the other two still sleeping. “They tell of a time before memory; before even theses  _ renaigse _ came. There are rumors of others on the island, but we do not explore.”

“Why?”

Maybe she tries to laugh, maybe she’s irritated with him when her initial reply is just a soft snort. “You have seen what the lions do. Your own warriors even laughed at me.” She glances over at him. “You asked what you can do to help.”

Alex swallows and nods. “Yes, and I do mean it. I’ve much to learn, Siora. I… the Congregation seeks peaceful relations, and if our own allies are not behaving in a peaceable manner, I want to do something about it.”

Siora hardly blinks. “Do you always complicate your speech, so?”

“It’s part of the job.” His eyes land on her greyish birthmark. “Your sister said I looked like an  _ on ol menawi _ .” His lips and tongue tumble over the new words like a stream over rocks. “Is she always so complimentary?”

The smallest of smiles touches her lips. “The mark of the  _ on ol menawi _ comes when they are bonded to this land. You very much do resemble us, even if you are…”

“ _ Renaigse? _ ” He matches her tiny smile and she nods. 

“Though you seem different from most, and not just in appearance. To call you  _ renaigse _ all the time does not feel right.”

“How about Alex?” he asks. “My promise to help was not empty. And I truly do wish to work on your behalf as well.”

Siora trails her fingers over the splashes of red and orange on the walls. “And I wish to help you. You are different… Alex. Eseld is grieving and dealing with it in her way. Perhaps if you were to help me recover our mother, negotiate her release, she may see you in a different light.”

“I’ll help. But not because I care about my reputation.” Something twists sharply in his chest. He’s seen this color before: his mother’s brittle grey hair, the grey smudges and shimmer over her eyes, blinded by the Malichor. “My own mother is surely dead by now. I would be a poor reflection of her her lessons if I did not help another save her own mother.” His voice cracks and his cheeks burn. His chest is too tight.

By this point Kurt and Vasco have woken--though from the way Vasco watches, Alex suspects he’s been awake longer and his listened in. This morning they are all dirty and disheveled, a far cry from their usual routine. There is no sparring practice, because the day may hold actual fighting. The morning meal is cold and dry, though filling. 

Kurt breaks out a map of the area and points out a nearby Alliance outpost. “You sure you want to follow through with this, Greenblood?” He watches Alex and reads every emotion that Alex can’t hide. “You’re a little out of your element here.”

Alex nods and hefts his pack on his shoulders. “Can I count on you?” He levels his gaze at Kurt, who’s always pushed him and Constantin to excel, and who’s always been there to protect them. He’s not sure he needs Kurt’s protection right now, but his support? Definitely. Kurt’s older. Harsher. Alex needs the ragged edges.

“That’s what you’re paying me for,” Kurt says, though his smile is a bit softer. He catches Vasco’s sharp stare, his raised eyebrow, and then rubs the back of his neck. “Fuck it, I’d be with you even if you didn’t pay me. But it helps,” he adds. “Don’t tell the Commander I’m getting soft.”

“No shame in it if you were,” Vasco points out. “Nothing wrong with your crew knowing you’re looking out for them. You know, one captain to another.” 

“Don’t worry. De Sardet and his cousin are stuck with me.” 

As the sun begins burning off the fog, Vasco and Kurt continue their easy banter. Alex can almost forget the horror of last night. Until they cross into the boundaries of the outpost, until rifles click and swords check in their scabbards, until he sees the faint aura of magic glowing at Siora’s fingertips. He takes a deep breath and dabs at his face with his kerchief, wiping away the worst of the sweat and soot. He would prefer to be more presentable, but a good diplomat works with what he has.

It works to his advantage, because the outpost commander is just as weary as they are, and listens. He sighs. “Our orders were to capture the queen; it is regrettable, but such is war,” he says. 

Regret is in the air, thick as death pyre smoke. There are so many things Alex could say, so many things he  _ wants  _ to say. So many things no one here asked for. He should offer his condolences to the commander, should agree, but all he can offer is a half-hearted shrug and reiterate his request to be shown to Queen Bladnid’s body.

He leaves Siora with her mother’s remains and tries to put the image of his own dying mother out of his mind. She has to be dead by now, probably died while he was at sea, so advanced was her condition. He leaves Kurt and Vasco to guard Siora and returns to the commander.

“I’d like to request that you release the Queen’s body,” he says evenly, and watches the man’s coldness spread, like ice crystals crawling up a window on a winter morning. “I understand that you have also suffered losses, however, if your intention is to come to some sort of truce with the natives of this region, this would be seen as an act of good will.” He has no idea if it’s true. He’s not sure any act, regardless of how good the intentions, will help the enmity.

“You lost many men and women,” Alex ventures when the commander has nothing to say. “As a representative of the Merchant Congregation you have our sympathies.”

“So do the islanders,” he retorts, though his voice is thick with weariness and a bit of suspicion.

“Because they lost many as well.” Alex places his hands flat on the man’s desk and leans in. “While I am not here as an arbiter of who lost more, I see great grief and sadness that you have the ability to help assuage, and perhaps help stem for the future.”

“You have many pretty words, Legate,” the commander finally says. He sighs and rubs his eyes. “I will release the body.” He picks up a pen and drafts up something, nib scratching across the paper. “Show this release to the guards. Then get out of here and take the woman with you.”

Alex bows and thanks him, takes the ordres, and returns. He finds Siora on her knees, face buried in her arms and her shoulders shaking. Even in death’s repose he can see the strong resemblance between Siora and her mother, though Queen Bladnid’s facial marking is shaped differently. Her torso is stained with dark blood. “Siora, you can go home. And so can she,” he tells her, one hand on her shoulder. He closes his eyes. Thinks of his own mother, and how he hasn’t grieved for her yet.

In the end, Vasco and Kurt take turns carrying the Queen’s body back to the village: gently, reverently, silently. The two captains only need exchange glances to communicate. Alex walks beside Siora, torn between comforting her and letting her alone. At one point Vasco lightly touches his shoulder. It’s no jauntily whistled shanty, but it reminds Alex that he’s there, he’s not bearing this alone, and it helps.

Alex lightly touches Siora’s shoulder, but withdraws his hand before she can stiffen. She glances at him and he meets her gaze.  _ I’m sorry, _ he thinks.

“I wish I could have done more,” he says when they reach the village, and the warriors of the clan come out to retrieve their fallen queen.

“You did more than I could have hoped,  _ ren _ \--Alex.” Siora ignores her sister’s fiery glare. “I wish to grieve a bit more, and then would like to accompany you.”

“I’d like that,” he says, and it’s true. They’re bonded by more than their strange resemblance now. It’s not a bond either of them would like, but now they can share it together. And that helps start to ease the gnawing ache.


	17. The End Is the Beginning

_The End is the Beginning_

“A moment, if I may?”

Alex’s heart leaps when he looks up and Vasco is standing there, coat shed in the surprisingly warm afternoon sun. “And here I thought we were past being so formal,” he says. His heart beats faster when Vasco smiles. “You may always have a moment, Vasco. More, if you wish.” 

“You’re generous. I may avail myself of that.” Vasco holds out his hand and helps Alex to his feet. “We won’t be far,” he calls to Kurt and Siora, before returning his attention to Alex. He lightly takes his hand and leads him into the copse, though not so deep that they’ll run across predators. A stream trickles nearby; of course Vasco would gravitate toward water. He doesn’t drop Alex’s hand until they come out into a small clearing and the stream empties into a clear pond. He sinks to the ground, pulling Alex with him.

Insects buzz and the stream trickles and it’s easy to forget just how awful the last couple of days have been. “You wanted a moment?” Alex asks.

Vasco pulls off his boots and socks and curls his toes in the soft grass. “A few moments. The last days have been difficult for you. I’ve an ear to lend if you’ve a mind to speak.”

“I… I appreciate that.” Alex follows suit. The grass is cool and soft between his toes, and the warmth of the sunlight makes him drowsy. “I don’t wish to burden you unnecessarily though.” He stares at the ground before him and plucks thin blades of grass. Sweetness emanates from the ground and he makes himself smile at Vasco, while a wall slowly builds up inside: another partition to keep his emotions at bay.

Vasco scoots closer. He rests a hand on top of Alex’s, twines his fingers with his. “It’s a captain’s duty to be aware of what’s going on with his crew. You’re not my crew, but I can’t turn off my sense of intuition so easily. Particularly with someone I’ve grown fond of.”

Alex turns his hand over, grasps Vasco’s hand. Vasco leans in, kisses his cheek, but doesn’t push it further. It would be so easy to just lose himself in Vasco’s kisses: his hot mouth, agile tongue, practiced hands, and warm breath. But like that night on the road out of Hikmet, Vasco doesn’t push any further--not out of disinterest, but restraint. “How much did you hear?” he asks, and Vasco stares at him, brow furrowed. “When I was talking with Siora yesterday morning.”

Sheepish is a good look for Vasco, who’s usually perfectly assured to the point of appearing aloof or haughty. “Here I thought I was so clever.” He grins, pulls Alex closer so their shoulders are touching. “I heard enough to know you’re doing a damned fine job hiding your own grief while trying to right the wrongs of everyone else around you, my own included.” He brushes a lock of hair off Alex’s forehead, and his fingers linger on his cheek. “Do you want to tell me about her?”

Sometimes, a bottle under pressure will blow its cork and spew the contents everywhere. It’s surprising and messy and often embarrassing. But Alex has felt pressure building since he said goodbye and his mother’s blinded eyes followed the sound of his footsteps out of her chambers. He’s felt it at quiet moments on the crossing when he’s suspended between the old world and the new, and life and death go on while his only constant is the ocean. “She is… was? Hells, I don’t even know. I can’t even begin properly.” His face burns. His throat aches. “She was very protective of me. She’d had so much trouble getting with child, at least that’s what I used to overhear the servants saying. So she looked after me herself, and even when I deserved a tongue-lashing from my uncle, she wouldn’t let him.” He smiles a bit in spite of himself. 

Vasco wraps an arm around him, holding him close. He’s solid and warm. “What else?”

It’s easier after that, to tell of his mother and growing up with her. It hurts, but not quite as badly to recall when she first took ill, and how her slow decline meant ramping up his education and his training in preparation for his role as the Legate. “I can only hope that I make her proud,” he finishes. By now the sun has shifted and the shadows are looking longer. 

“I decided some time back that I didn’t care to father a child,” Vasco begins, perhaps a bit wistfully. “He’d be bound to be sea-born, and I’d have no say over what becomes of him, and, well, you see how I am about family.” He nuzzles into Alex’s shoulder. “But if I were to become a parent, I’d hope my child grew to be like you.”

“That may be the loveliest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” Alex’s fingertips brush over Vasco’s hair, tuck a lock behind his ear, stroke the gold hoop there. “It will make it harder when...” He’s already discussed too much loss today. Instead of voice his fear that Vasco will be gone someday soon when the wind is fair and the tide is right, he kisses him. He kneels in the grass, straddling Vasco’s lap, takes his face in his hands and weaves his fingers in the silky pale hair. Vasco’s lips move against his, then they part, then their tongues are moving together. 

They fall to the ground, Alex atop the captain. He slides his hands inside Vasco’s coat, undoes the front of his shirt. He kisses Vasco’s neck, trailing his lips over the taut tendons and carefully etched tattoos. He strokes his collarbones, kisses his way down Vasco’s sternum. He feels his breeches straining, feels Vasco straining against him, gasps as Vasco rolls over so he’s on top. His hair falls over his shoulders like a pale curtain. It’s only them, nose to nose.

“I… I think I figured out that Naut trick,” Alex says, voice trembling, breath hitching.

“That so.”

He runs a hand through Vasco’s hair. “If you take someone’s breath away, you need to know how to give it back.”

Vasco’s lips brush over his. “You’ve a way with words, my Tempest,” he murmurs. 

“Tempest?” Alex blushes in spite of himself. He’s been called many things: Legate, Lord, Sir. None of his bedfellows have ever had such a nickname for him, nor whispered it so tenderly.

“It’s the end,” Vasco explains. He rolls off of Alex, onto his side. He leans on an elbow and props himself up with one hand on his cheek. Something about the intensity of his grey eyes, deep as the sea, fixed on Alex’s face, doesn’t make Alex’s heart stop upon hearing ‘the end’. “If water could quench love’s dying embers,your love that burns and pains and severs, I would douse this fire with the sea of all my tears. Then we shall set sail--” 

“--together on this bitter sea, my tempest,” Alex finishes. He stares into Vasco’s eyes and sees nothing but possibility, and though their future could hold pain, there is no reason their present cannot be halcyon.

Vasco cups the side of his face in one hand. “Sail with me, Tempest?”

“To the farthest horizon, and beyond.”

“Who’s stealing whose breath now?” Vasco kisses him: deep, intense, and sensuous. Alex kisses back until there’s no telling whose breath is whose. It’s a storm of passion and connection, the likes of which he’s never felt. 

More than a storm.

A tempest.


	18. Ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, time to change the rating to M...

_Ghosts_

Heavy clouds hang over the city of San Matheus like a funeral shroud. Cold rain streams down, running off the brims of their hats while Siora’s dark hair is plastered to her head. She is unbothered by this, however. In San Matheus, the harshly zealous beliefs of Theleme rule the streets. The main square is known, unironically and unaffectionately, as the Place of Punishment. In the center, a bonfire sends smoke up to the low clouds, and a creature of flesh and wood is bound to a stake, howling in pain.

“This is what the flame of the Illumined will do to your soul.” The man’s dull armor matches the sky, and rain water drips from the brim of his hat as he bears down upon one of the natives. Alex expects Siora to erupt into violence, but she stares stonily at the burning creature. The native man is in tears, but they are not for himself. He reaches out toward the creature, chanting in his rolling language. “Repent of your heathen beliefs!” the other man shouts. “Your pagan creatures are no match for the light of the Illumined!”

And when the man doesn’t immediately see the supposed error of his ways, the armored man strikes him with the pommel of his sword.

Raindrops wash dark blood into the cracks between cobblestones. Siora strangles a cry; her freckles stand out on her pale, sallow skin and her lip trembles. Her eyes are fixed not on the dead man across the square, but on the burning, wailing monster. Tears well up, spill over, track down her cheeks. Her lips move and Alex does not understand her language, but understands the cadence enough to know she is praying.  _ Tir Fradi, _ he hears, and he understands well enough.  _ En on mil frichtimen _ he hears and does not understand but a shudder shakes him from his feet and through his body until it’s just the tingling of his hair standing on end all over.

He wants to ask her what it is, why she’s so sad, why he feels it when he’s usually quite good at keeping his empathy at bay for the good of diplomacy, but the Theleme Inquisitor has caught sight of them: and what a sight they must be, Alex realizes. They’re rumpled and dirty from camping--hardly what the diplomatic ambassador from the Congregation should look like. His Coin Guard escort is grim and suspicious, and he’s accompanied by a Naut Captain and a native woman.

“Who are you who bring the barbarian  _ taint _ into our city?” he asks with disgust. His cold blue eyes linger on Alex’s mark. “You are marked like  _ them. _ And you keep the company of a barbarian woman.” His nose wrinkles, his nostrils flare. The unpleasant scent in the air is that of burning flesh and wood and soil, but the man doesn’t seem concerned about that.

“You kill an innocent man before our eyes, and  _ we _ are the barbarians?” Siora’s voice breaks. Where her face was sallow before, splotches of red break out and her tears are grief mingled with anger.

Alex squares his shoulders and narrows his eyes. “Who are you to address me with such familiarity?” He matches the man’s tone with a chill of his own, and while he remains calm, he can’t keep the hint of a sneer from his lips.

“I am the Inquisitor Aloysius. Those tainted by foul pagan beliefs have no business in this holy city. Unless you are willing to confess your faith in the one true god.”

The official religion of the Merchant Congregation is diplomacy; their existence depends on good relations with Theleme and Al Saad to trade; and on the guard and the Nauts for protection and transport. Organized religion, from what Alex has seen of Theleme, is rarely in the best interests of diplomacy. 

However, the diplomatic response would be to tell Aloysius that he does believe; it would make their passage in San Matheus easier, would soften the edges he’s bound to bump into while he’s accompanied by Siora. He could also send Siora back to her village… and in the moment it takes him to think of that, a vast sense of  _ wrongness _ crawls through him like an oozing shadow.

“No.” Alex meets the Inquisitor’s eye. “I do not cling to your religion now, nor will I ever. Your beliefs are yours, but I will not adopt them to appease you.”

“Heretic and traitor to the light,” Aloysius grumbles, and his hands begin to glow with magic.

Alex brings up a barrier to block his spell, and takes grim satisfaction in the Inquisitor’s gaping expression. “As you can see I’m well trained in the magic arts,” he announces. He does not drop his spell. “And had you bothered to ask my name prior to trying to force me to convert, you would have learned that I am Alexandre De Sardet, Legate of the Merchant Congregation on a mission from my cousin. Lord Constantin D’Orsay has requested that I personally deliver his regards to your governor, and rather than allow me diplomatic passage, you attacked me, unprovoked.” He keeps the shield up. Crosses his arms over his chest. Stares down Aloysius and does not allow his latent anger to bubble over.

Next to him, Kurt offers a lopsided grin. “I’m just here for looks,” he adds. “You can see the Legate is quite capable of protecting himself.”

“With me is Captain Kurt of the Coin Guard, Captain Vasco of the Nauts, and Siora, a princess among her people. We share the same mission.” Alex finally lets his spell dissipate, but he has another one queued up in his other palm. “Will you continue to provoke the Merchant Congregation, or will you let us pass?” 

They’ve drawn a small crowd of murmuring spectators, eager to see if their Inquisitor prevails over the motley band of diplomats. Finally Aloysius stands down. “When we do meet again, pray that you’ve renounced your heretical ways, or I will not hold back from exacting the divine mission with which the Enlightened has entrusted me.” 

Just like that life moves on in the Place of Punishment. 

“Kurt, do you think you can trust the guard to return this man’s body to his village?” Alex asks. “Siora, can you assist Kurt with identifying where he should go?” Siora cocks her head to the side. “The dead must be returned to the earth; isn’t that what you’ve said?” He tries to smile, but he’s already tired and the day has just begun. He expected zealotry; indeed, Theleme is known for it the way the Bridge Alliance is known for their scholars. But mere zealotry pales in comparison to Aloysius and his Inquisition.

He doesn’t realize he’s shaking until he nears the steps up to the governor’s palace, and Vasco stops him with a hand on his elbow. “I’ve been the subject of a conversion attempt or two,” he begins. He motions Alex to follow him to a wrought iron bench in a sheltered alcove. Only someone from Theleme could find the view of the Place of Punishment to be pleasant. Vasco rests his arm across the back of the bench and Alex scoots in next to him.

“How did you handle it?”

“Much the same as you did.” Vasco smiles. “Pulling rank is the only thing that seems to get through to those sorts, especially when they depend on you. And especially when you let slip that some Naut captains have been known to lose passengers overboard in particularly difficult storms.” His smile is soft, but his eyes twinkle in the filtered sunlight.

“Problematic passengers, I assume?”

“It’s inferred.”

Alex recalls disobeying orders and staying on deck in the storm. “I apologize if I was ever problematic,” he offers.

Vasco shakes his head. “Problematic, no. Headstrong and stubborn? Quite, but I forgive that.” He hooks a finger under Alex’s chin, brushes his lips against Alex’s. “Don’t let him distract you from being you.”

“Thank you.” Alex squeezes his thigh lightly and they rise. He appreciates the talk, but is uneasy that he needed it in the first place. The only thing that has changed, as far as he can tell, is his location; the politics are the same, the politicians are the same, the politicking games are exactly as they are on the continent. The strange feeling has crept through him almost since he made landfall, and has only intensified the longer he’s on Teer Fradee.

The palace of Mother Cardinal Cornelia is much like Constantin’s palace back… no, not home. In New Serene. Perhaps Alex just needs rest in a proper bed. But being in the palace puts him more at ease, as it’s an environment he understands. Even with the prayer benches and few pews in the audience hall, Alex still feels back in his element.

“Rise, Lord De Sardet,” Mother Cornelia orders. In spite of her title, Cornelia is less motherly and almost militant. She stands behind her podium at strict attention and her beady eyes sweep over him and his Naut companion. “Word of your confrontation with Inquisitor Aloysius reached me. I apologize for his… intensity,” she offers. 

“The Light does not spread by remaining dim, Mother Cardinal,” the Inquisitor next her retorts. 

“Nor will it spread by alienating our diplomatic relations,” she counters smoothly. “Reign in your men, Domitius, or I will do it for you.”

Bishop Domitius’s glare is cold enough to freeze lava, but Alex just meets his eyes with a blank stare of his own. Meeting an emotional charge with indifference is usually more effective, and in this case, he needs the ear of the Mother Cardinal more than the Bishop’s approval.

After that Cornelia is far more pleasant, almost jovial, as they retire to a sitting room to discuss Constantin’s greetings and the issue of the Malichor. “Governor Constantin’s mission, as given by the Prince on the Continent, was to discover if any headway had been made against the Malichor,” he explains as he takes his tea and a light meal. 

“Of course.” She dabs her mouth with a plain napkin. “As this is the land of our Blessed Saint, we have little doubt that we may find healing by following his footsteps. As it happens we have missionaries in the villages now, and several expedition teams in the field. One is on the cusp of a major breakthrough, and once we--”

She breaks off as the door creaks open. Alex is grateful Siora is not present for the speech, but again isn’t sure why he is so concerned. Theleme is their ally. They’ve always had diplomatic relations, and he needs to ensure those remain intact. That’s the priority.

“My apologies for my tardiness, Mother Cardinal.” In steps an older man, armored, but almost fatherly.

“Ah, Bishop Petrus. Thank you for joining.” She smiles. “I believe you remember Lord Alexandre De Sardet?”

Petrus bows slightly and then looks,  _ really looks _ at Alex. He stops mid-bow. His eyes widen in his lined face and his breath catches in his chest before he recovers himself. “Yes, my lord. It’s been some time since I’ve been at your uncle’s court. Forgive me, but you’re like a ghost of your…of your mother.” He takes a seat and accepts the tea a servant pours for him. 

“Thank you, but everyone assures me I’m the exact image of my father,” Alex says politely. “Though I’m sure you must have known him, if you’d been at court?”

“Of course.” Petrus smiles. “You must forgive an old man.”

“Please, Petrus, you’re hardly old.” The Mother Cardinal scoffs. “Thank you for joining us. Your Excellency,” she says, turning her attention to Alex, “your presence on this island is just what we need. Clearly you have a way with words, and clearly you get on well with everyone. I’d like to request that you allow the Bishop here to accompany you. He may help you get some footing with our people.”

“If you mean with the Inquisitors, I don’t know that I will be as effective as you claim. Though I appreciate your confidence.” Petrus’s smirk belies a humor only he seems to understand.

“I appreciate the help, and will accept.” Alex sets his cup and saucer down with a light clink. “The Malichor affects us all, and we all look to cure it, or at least stem its spread, in different ways. Bishop, I will present you to my cousin when we arrive in New Serene.”

Of course the Mother Cardinal has another list of items she “could use some help with, from someone with a more neutral angle”, and in the spirit of diplomacy Alex agrees to assist. He adds it to the list from the Bridge Alliance, and the unofficial list growing in his mind to help Siora and her people. She hasn’t asked for his official help. But if they’re on her land, it’s the right thing to do.

He and Vasco take their leave and walk silently through the streets of San Matheus, where a palpable gloom hangs over the buildings. “For a religion based on the light, it’s rather darkly oppressive, don’t you think?” Vasco asks as they approach the door to Alex’s flat here in the city. Servants have already come through and freshened up the linens and left a note stating when they’ll be by with dinner. “You don’t believe in their light?”

Alex shucks his coat and boots. “I don’t. Do you?” Vasco shakes his head. “What  _ do _ Nauts believe?”

Vasco follows suit and plops his tricorn on the finial at the end of the bannister. He runs his hand through his hair. “We leave our fate to the sea. We have a healthy respect for it and know any day out of port can be our last. Hells, any day  _ in _ port could be our last.” He gives a low chuckle. “I’ve heard tell more Nauts die in port than on the sea, though I’m not sure if that’s a fact, or just a ruse to trick the youngsters into behaving.”

Kurt and Siora join them shortly after, but no one is in the mood for small talk. “Will we be long in this place?” Siora asks.

“I hope to leave within the next couple of days.” Alex rereads the list from the Mother Cornelia. “I know you are uncomfortable here, Siora. I don’t blame you for not wanting to stay. I really don’t either,” he confesses. 

“You feel the wrong that is here.” She meets his eyes. Gives a small smile of solidarity that he returns.

“Everything feels wrong,” Kurt announces, and they all turn eyes on him. “It may be that I just don’t know the men stationed on the island garrisons all that well, or if I do, we lost touch some time back.” He runs a hand over his close-cropped hair. “Some of them are ghosts of who they used to be.”

It reminds Alex of the way Petrus stared at him.

He wishes he could help Kurt, his oldest friend next to Constantin, but the more he thinks on it, the more he realizes he doesn’t know much about the Guard beyond the fact they protect the Congregation’s interests. 

“Don’t worry about me, Greenblood,” Kurt says with a smile when Alex voices his concern. “I’m going to spend the night in the barracks if it’s the same to you. And a tumble at the tavern, before that. The religious nuts don’t have their claws in the guard yet, and I intend to take advantage of that,” he adds with a wider grin, though his eyes are tired. Maybe a bit haunted.

Which leaves Siora, Vasco, and Alex to determine how to split the two bedrooms. Alex offers one to Siora of course, and she accepts. He’d love to discuss her reaction to the creature in the Place of Punishment, but she disappears behind the door.

“I don’t mind taking the sofa,” he tells Vasco. “I’ll have extra linens brought and--”

Vasco pulls him into a deep kiss. “If you think I want to sleep alone when we have a chance at some privacy, you’re not quite as intuitive as I’d thought.” He nuzzles into Alex’s neck, kisses the soft spot where his jaw meets his neck, runs a hand down his back, grips his hips and presses against him. “Take me away, Tempest,” he teases, and it’s enough to make Alex put his melancholy aside.

And he does take Vasco away from the ghost of the ocean that lingers in his mind. He takes him in his mouth and leaves Vasco stifling groans of pleasure so as not to wake Siora across the hall. He traces his tattoos in the firelight, reads the story etched over his fair skin. He doesn’t understand it, but he knows it defines who Vasco is as a man as much as who he is as a Naut. 

His fingers ghost over the intricate, symmetrical lines: slowly, methodically. Sometimes Vasco’s breath hitches in his chest and his eyelids flicker. His arm tightens around Alex’s bare shoulders, fingers trailing along his bicep. 

The fire is ash as dawn creeps in, and Alex wakes suddenly. He expects to be alone, as he has so many times before, with the ghost of his lover leaving an imprint in the sheets. But this time his arm is numb, and it is because there is a very real Vasco sleeping quietly, curled up next to him.

Ever so gently he casts a flame spell at the hearth and the embers catch once more. He pulls the comforter more tightly around them before planting a light kiss on Vasco’s forehead, in space between tattoos, which he marks for himself.


	19. A Little Naut Magic

_A Little Naut Magic_

“I’ve seen that look before.”

Vasco snaps to attention and looks over at Alex. “What look?”

“When I called the  _ Seahorse _ a boat.” Alex tilts back the brim of Vasco’s hat. Vasco’s eyebrows descend, but his scowl remains. “Care to share what’s on your mind?”

Vasco sighs, takes off his hat, smooths his hair, replaces his hat. Vasco isn’t a fidgeter, and he’s always so assured that it concerns Alex to see this. “Usually we can keep Theleme at bay--no pun intended--by being evasive. I don’t care for Domitius and his inquisitors, and I sure as hell don’t care for the implication that Nauts bring the Malichor where they go.” His shoulders sink and he lets out his breath in a slow hiss. 

“Well. I’m glad we cleared the air with that,” Alex says lightly. “I don’t like him either. If it’s worth anything, I don’t think Nauts bring the Malichor with them; otherwise, it would have landed here already.”

“Would you like to wager how far that logic will take you with Domitius?” Vasco asks wryly.

“Point taken.” They stand on the jetty near the San Matheus lighthouse, the westernmost point of Teer Fradee. Alex stares out at the horizon line, trying to imagine that there can be more out there than just water. The damp, chilly air clings to his skin and tries to get inside his coat; but it’s fresh and clean and welcome from the dank heaviness inside of the city. “I will admit that I have never heard of a Naut coming down with the Malichor.”

Vasco stares out at the grey ocean; if he aches to see what he cannot have, his expression does not bely it. He resembles a finely carved figurehead of a ship. “Natural immunity, I suppose? I hadn’t given it much thought.”

Gulls call overhead and the waves lap at the rocks below them. Alex swallows and ignores how his heart starts thudding. “They say the Nauts have a form of magic,” he hedges. 

“Yes,” Vasco says slowly. “That only Nauts can learn. I like you, Alexandre, more than is wise for the both of us, but it remains that you’re not a Naut.” His tone, however, is gentle, and he softens his words with a light kiss.

“Do any Nauts come to the profession later in life?”

“Of course. We’re often approached by people who’d rather commit to the sea forever than live whatever life they’re living. They’re still Sea Given, it’s just that they're the ones giving themselves if that makes sense.”

Alex nods slowly. Just because he’s always felt comfortable in his own life doesn’t mean anything for anyone else. All he has to do is look at Vasco to see a man who was unhappy in the life he led, until recently. He wonders about giving up Legate work, leaving the Congregation to sail with Vasco. “Maybe I’ll sail with you someday,” he ventures.

“I would enjoy that,” Vasco says and his tone is warm, his smile true. “I’d teach you properly; none of this pampered noble lounging business.” They head back toward the pier and stroll alongside the ships moored there. Vasco points out the intricacies of the knotwork, the different rope weights, and identifies a couple of different barnacle species on the hulls and then on the dock pilings. It’s a world Alex has never entered before, and he could listen to Vasco discuss it all day.

But they have work to do, a fact that is driven home like a punch to the gut when they spy Domitius and Aloysius approaching from the other end of the pier. Alex grabs Vasco’s arm and they duck into an alley between the rows of red Naut warehouses. Vasco leans against a wall and Alex stands on his far side. A Naut in this district is normal; a Congregation Legate? Not so much, and Alex hasn’t quite endeared himself the inquisitors as it is.

The inquisitors stalk by and Alex’s keen ears pick out words of interest, like Malichor, heresy, dark magic. Next to him, Vasco stifles a disgusted noise, but straightens up when one of the inquisitors says “hiding something”. He nudges Alex further into the alley, shushing him with a shake of his head and guiding him through the maze of pathways between the warehouses. He hoists himself up a low wall, his coat fluttering like the wings of a dragon as he vaults over. Alex scrambles to follow, not nearly as graceful, and his ankle twists as he lands. He grits his teeth through the ache and catches up with Vasco.

The sea captain is agile and quiet, moving carefully through the alleys. His coat whispers against the buildings they brush up against, but that’s it. Even his breathing is inaudible. One hand rests on his sword hilt and his sharp eyes track the inquisitors. While this is still San Matheus, the warehouses are Naut territory; even the Coin Guard respects those boundaries.

Vasco lets out a low whistle that makes both inquisitors look up sharply, and Alex’s heart beats faster as he’s sure they’re caught. Vasco shakes his head and still’s Alex with one hand on his shoulder. Another whistle echoes his, and suddenly two tattooed Nauts emerge from another nearby alleyway. One catches Vasco’s eye and his step falters upon seeing his many markings. He bows slightly and Vasco returns the gesture. 

It’s enough of a distraction that the inquisitors retreat, followed by those first two Nauts and then another pair, all four sporting swords and pistols and a variety of tattoos, and no tolerance for Theleme trespassers. “What were they looking for?” Alex whispers.

“Proof that we cause the Malichor no doubt.” Vasco spits at his feet. The uncharacteristic snarl in his voice leads Alex to realize that he’s just as ill at ease in San Matheus as the rest of them. “If we don’t catch it, we must cause it. Us and our strange magic.” 

Alex conjures a glob of deep violet energy in his palm, and it crackles and illuminates the Vasco’s straight nose and sharp jaw. “So the stories are true?” he asks and playfully tosses the ball of magic between his hands. “That you command the winds and appease the waters with sacrifices? That your ships hold the souls of dead Nauts?”

He expects the raised eyebrows and bemused sneer again, but Vasco actually laughs loud and hearty enough to startle a pair of gulls nearby. “Is that what they say we do, then?” Alex was just teasing, but Vasco’s reaction makes him blush. Vasco peers out around the side of the building and sees no sign of inquisitors or his own people. “Come along, Tempest. Put your magic away and see some of ours.”

There is a funny swelling in Alex’s chest. Not anxiety, and not fear, but pride. Vasco trusts him enough to show what the Nauts hold close. They slip into the dim warehouse that was of such interest to the inquisitors, and Alex casts a light spell. He holds his hand out to direct the light, and Vasco weaves between stacks of crates. “This must be where the new ship is being outfitted. Could be why they were so interested,” he murmurs. “Here, look.” 

Alex approaches and looks where Vasco directs. As a magic wielder himself he’s expecting sparks and spells and reverberating energy that clashes with his own. What he sees is a crate full of brass and glass. “These are… not what I expected,” he finishes. 

Vasco’s lips curl into a sly grin. “They rarely are. Predicting the weather? Knowing how deep the waters are and if it’s safe to sail? Reading the stars? Those aren’t magic. They’re science.” He catches Alex’s hand in both of his, turning it over so the ball of light rests in his palm. He’s breathtaking in this soft yellow glow, and Alex steadies a trembling breath. It’s all for naught a moment later when Vasco suddenly leans in and kisses him so long and hard he’s left gasping. When Vasco pulls away, his own lips reddened, his own breathing shaky, he manages a smile. “Also science? Giving your breath back.”

Alex lets the tiny yellow light float between them and leans against a stack of crates. “So why not just tell the inquisition this? Why continue to be so bitter that they suspect the Nauts’ involvement in the Malichor, when you could just show them this?”

“If everyone learned the secrets of Naut ‘magic’, then what good would the guild be?” Vasco shrugs.

“Then why tell me?”

“For one, can you see anyone with the coin at the top of the Merchant Congregation putting the work into learning how to sail a ship, let alone build one?” Vasco asks, and they both know the answer is no. “But ultimately, it comes down to the fact that I trust you. And maybe there will come a day when we sail together, and you’ll need to know how to read the stars, or tell when a storm is coming…”

“Or tie a good knot?” Alex asks, biting his lip and glancing up at Vasco.

“Aye, there’s that.”

“I think for now I’d just settle for stealing your breath away. We are quite alone, yes?”

Vasco nods and licks his lips. “So long as you promise to give it back.”


	20. Mind Shakers

_Mind Shakers_

The map reads _ Tir Dolb _, the Black Lands, and yet Petrus insists that Saint Matheus and his students of the light walked these lands long ago. Alex expected to keep the peace between area factions, but it’s harder under his own roof and in his own camp. Petrus speaks smoothly and insists that he’s at the Legate’s disposal, and even has a kind smile for Siora and calls everyone ‘my child’.

“I am _ not _ your child, Mind Shaker,” she tells him, meeting his gaze full on. “The sooner our lands are free of your kind, the better we will be.”

She says _ mind shaker _ with even more vitriol than _ renaigse _ . She stays at the far edge of camp and refuses to take watch with Petrus. “You are not like the other _ renaigse _, and you have helped me. I trust you, Alex,’ she tells him. “You have not tried to change our people, and you listen when we speak. Mind shakers speak. When we don’t care to listen, they speak louder. They speak louder until we either listen to make them stop, or until we fight back with more than words. They shout until we can take it no longer.”

“Our word for that is missionary,” Alex says, “but I can see how the two phrases would mean the same thing.” He offers her a smile and a tin mug of warm tea that Vasco has prepared at the fire. She accepts it, but he knows she wouldn’t if Petrus had been involved.

“The villages in this part of the island are torn.” Siora holds the mug between her hands, warming her fingers, as she stares into the darkening woods around them. She does not fear the island: its people, its wild creatures, all are part of who she is and she has no reason to fear. She does fear the Lions and the Mind Shakers who have come to her land to take for themselves. “Some, like Derdre’s people in Vedleug, will fight and show no mercy. They shake back.”

“What about Vidwal? The one we’re near now.”

She snorts quietly. “Ler would keep the peace. Derdre would say his mind is already shaken.”

Alex nods and ponders this. “Thank you, Siora. Would you like me to keep this watch with you?”

“I’d like that.” She offers a rare smile.

They enter Vidwal the next morning. Petrus describes this as a new Eden, a place of peace. The earthen dwellings of the islanders are dwarfed by larger wooden houses of Theleme missionaries who’ve settled here on their quest to find proof of their saint. The Theleme scholars welcome them with an excitement that is not shared by the wary native villagers.

Eden, like anything that is beautiful, is in the eye of the beholder.

Chief Ler seems to want to keep the peace, as Siora said, but he also seems apathetic; as if he’s decided there’s no point in trying to force out the missionaries. It’s a tenuous peace that balances on the edge of a knife, and Ler doesn’t wish to upset it. “Do what you must, _ renaigse _,” he says with a lazy wave of his hand. “If finding the missionaries' saint will stop them from bothering me, then by all means do so.”

“Mind shakers,” Siora corrects him, when they’re out of earshot.

“Is it shaking the mind when we just hope to share the joy that the Light has brought?” Petrus asks, genuinely curious, but Alex steps between them.

“Perhaps it is the methods used that make it difficult for some to see the good that the Light has to offer,” he says, recalling what he witnessed in the Place of Punishment. “As I wish to return to New Serene soon, I’d like to see what can be done to assure diplomatic relations in this area are stable.”

Stability is also in the eye of the beholder.

Alex wonders if he himself is a mind shaker, the way he wields words and negotiates bargains. He’s always espoused the importance of compromise, but when one side has to give up more, has to give in, who truly wins? Who’s the successful one? 

He shares this with Vasco later that evening as they camp once again between villages, and his lover calls him on his melancholy. “I suppose I’ve always believed in the greater good, but now…”

“You don’t know what the greater good is?” Vasco wraps his arm around his shoulder, pulling the blanket tighter around them while they watch the fire. 

“Yes. That’s it. Or… who the greater good is for.” It helps having words to this. “It tends to vary depending on who I ask.” He hugs his knees to his chest, something he hasn’t done in a very long time: a diplomat’s body language should be open and inviting, after all. But he doesn’t have to appear inviting for Vasco to know when he’s wanted (all the time) or needed (all the time). Vasco reads his tells with uncanny precision. He’s never felt so alive, so completely comfortable with one person before. 

But Vasco doesn’t want anything from him other than for Alex to be himself. He could have pulled away once Alex had gotten him his information, but he hasn’t. 

Vasco cards his hand through Alex’s hair, and gooseflesh breaks out on his arms as a shudder runs down his spine. He reflexively relaxes into him. “Diplomacy is all well and good. Balance is necessary. It’s nice to be liked. But sometimes you have to consider what you feel inside.” 

Alex glances up at him. Dancing firelight always makes Vasco look otherworldly: it casts shadows in the hollows of his high, sharp cheekbones and makes his tattoos look alive. He stills his fingers, which itch to caress the indelible lines. Vasco, however, does not hold back. His arm curls around Alex’s shoulders and his fingers caress the grey mark. Alex stiffens, but Vasco does not stop and his touch is gentle, his eyes almost golden in the firelight. “Inside?” he manages to say.

“Aye. Facts and figures are necessary; our ships couldn’t sail half as successfully if we didn’t have our barometers or sextants. But the sea is unpredictable. The best captains and admirals have been known to ignore the tools at their disposal and follow their gut.”

“The best? Like you?” This time Alex does trace over the lines across Vasco’s cheek. 

He catches Alex’s hand and places a gentle kiss along his fingertips. “You flatter me. Maybe someday I’ll count myself among them, but for now I’ve still much to learn. And you miss my point,” he says with a soft smile. “Tools are just that. And more than that, tools break. Intuition does not.” He releases Alex’s hand. “What is your gut telling you?”

It’s a serious question, and Alex spends a long time staring into the fire and thinking. “I think Siora is right about mind shakers, and what they’re trying to do. It doesn’t feel right having them here, and it feels as if Ler has given up. But I also feel like I can’t blame him, after what I’ve seen of their _ persuasive methods _.” 

Vasco nods. “I can’t say I’ve much love for Theleme’s missionaries myself, given their feelings on my family. What else?”

“The Bridge doesn’t see Siora’s people as human. They’re little more than fascinating creatures.” He touches his mark, still tingling from the memory of Vasco’s fingertips. “The Alliance ambassador in Serene always stared at my face, almost hungry, like my mark was the key to… to something. But in Serene he could do nothing. Here though? It’s free reign.” He swallows and tries not to shiver. “No one should ever have come to this island,” he decides.

“Fair enough.” Vasco stretches out one leg and drapes his other arm over his bent knee. “What did you think about those ruins back near the battlefield?” he asks suddenly.

Alex furrows around in his brain, trying to recall, but he’s seen and done so much and he’s so tired just now. “I’ll discuss it with Constantin when we return to New Serene,” he decides. “And I can’t shake Ler’s mind, though I’m sure there are still some people who’d like me to try. I’m just one man. I can’t please everyone.”

“But you can, and have pleased me,” Vasco teases, and angles his head down for a kiss.


	21. The Curse in a Dead Man's Eye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another title from _Rime of the Ancient Mariner_.

_The Curse in a Dead Man's Eye_

Alex has not spent enough time in New Serene to consider it home; but it is as close to home as he can get, and besides, it’s where his only family resides. Constantin greets him with a tight, almost desperate hug and it occurs to him that his cousin’s been lonely. The days of trekking through Teer Fradee haven’t been entirely enjoyable; but Alex has had the company of his Captain. Constantin has had the hollow halls of his palace and the ear of his advisors, which are a poor substitute for friends and family.

But Constantin feels thinner in Alex’s arms, and his eyes are shadowed. “Cousin, are you quite well?” Alex asks when he finally pries Constantin’s arms off of him. He holds him by the shoulders and searches his face. Constantin smiles, but his lips are dry. His skin holds a pallor more suitable to the grave.

“I’m fine, dear cousin.” Constantin sinks into his throne. “I just tire easily; part of me wonders if it’s because I’m so bored!” he jokes. “You’re off running about, while I languish here and hardly get out into the sunlight.” A sudden cough racks him. 

Slushy cold oozes through Alex, starting in his gut and moving into his chest, his groin, his arms and fingers, and down his legs. He’s heard that cough before. He has to remember to breathe as he stands there, staring at Constantin and looking for the tell-tale glaze of the eye, the grey smudges, the pinkish teeth from the bleeding gums.

But there is none of that, and Constantin’s smile is playful once more as the sunlight streams through the window. “Have you spotted a ghost, cousin?” he asks, and his cheeky grin is more befitting of the Constantin that Alex recalls. 

“No, not this time.” Alex forces a lighthearted tone, though he can tell his voice is tight and his face little more than a mask of joviality. “I think I just have too much on my mind after what I’ve experienced in San Matheus.” 

“If you’d like to share some time debriefing his Excellency, I will excuse myself,” Vasco says, smooth and poised as any noble. Alex will have to ask him if that’s part of captain training. 

Alex doesn’t want him to go: their time on the road, fighting side by side and seeing the horrors that are the reality of this island, has made him trust Vasco in a way he doesn’t trust anyone else, maybe not even Constantin. He manages a shaky smile. “Thank you, Captain Vasco,” he says, unnecessarily formal, but Vasco just bows, meeting his eyes for a moment.

“Come along, Kurt--let’s discuss what it’s like to be a captain without a ship,” he announces, and steers Kurt out. Petrus joins them, and Siora waits until Petrus has disappeared to take her leave. 

He had so many things he wanted to tell Constantin; and now that they are alone, Alex can think of nothing to say. His cousin’s pallor, and the languid way he moves, worry him more than he’ll let on. Constantin has always been spry and hale, even as the worst of the Malichor tore through Serene. “Are you sleeping enough?” he finally asks. “Who’s preparing your food? Is it safe?”

Constantin’s chuckle cuts him off. “Please, cousin. As I’ve said, no cause for alarm. I just need to take the air more often than I have been. Please, tell me your tidings.” He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, an eager smile on his face, though his eyes are glassy and tired. “I did read your letter about the Battle of the Red Spears, and I am sorry it came to that,” he says. “Of course my father would get us involved in the middle of all of this.” He sneers a little bit, too tired to fully commit to his derision. “And your comments about the ruins and frescoes are most interesting. I’ve had Sir De Courcillon and a couple of his scholars head out to some ruins Lady Morange mentioned, along the western coast.”

“Very helpful,” Alex agrees. “How do you spend your days while I’m gallivanting around this island?”

He means it in jest, but it’s clearly a sore spot for Constantin. His cousin sits up, leans back, folds his arms. He’s closed off and cold. “Sitting here, waiting. Waiting for audience, waiting for word, waiting for someone to let me  _ do _ something. Anything. It gives me time to think, and as you can imagine, my mind wanders.”

Downtime has never been kind for Constantin. He has to be going constantly; Alex thought the months at sea would break him. His mind goes to dark places when he’s left alone. He sometimes consoles himself in drink, like the night before they left the continent. And sometimes, he just thinks, and the longer he thinks, the more he believes the scenarios that he paints in his mind. 

“We’ve only just arrived a few weeks ago,” Alex consoles him. “We’re still making inroads with the other colonies, and I’m finding ways to assuage the complaints of the native islanders. We must lay the groundwork for people to come to us.”

“Logical as always, dear cousin.” Constantin’s lips twitch, an attempt at a smile. “On more pleasant matters, what of you and the captain? You seem to have struck quite the friendship.” This time his smile is wider, more genuine and playful, and Alex reddens in spite of himself.

“Congratulate yourself all you’d like for suggesting our living arrangements,” Alex says with a laugh as he’s about to take his leave. “We’ll be as discreet as possible when out among society.”

Constantin waves his hand. “This isn’t the continent, where we continue our staid and dour ways. If life in Serene taught me one thing--”

“Only one? De Courcillon will be quite disappointed,” Alex teases.

Constantin’s laugh is a welcome sound. “Alright. Of the  _ many _ things I learned in Serene, the brevity of life and the tragedy of how we do not seek out happiness as a result, sticks with me.” He leans forward, again earnest, almost imploring. “He’s a fine man, Alex. Be happy with what you’ve found.”

Alex nods and excuses himself. Constantin rarely calls him Alex, so whatever melancholy he’s been suffering must have struck him deeply.

* * *

  
  


He’s surprised later to find Kurt and Vasco both at his home, playing at cards in the living room before a fire. “Greenblood,” Kurt greets him. Vasco scoots over on the sofa to make room for Alex. “Good timing. He was winning.”

“I warned you, Kurt. Sometimes we have nothing to do  _ but _ play at cards and dice and games of chance,” Vasco says with a shrug and a grin. He stretches one arm out along the back of the sofa, and his fingers brush over Alex’s shoulder. Kurt watches the exchange and says nothing, but Alex catches the spark in his eye, the way the corners of his eyes crinkle just slightly.

Kurt clears his throat and leans back in his own chair. He drops his hand of cards on the table. “Told you. Lousy. But while we’re on the subject… I had a green recruit who came to the island just before we did. Good kid, talented, more potential in one finger than I ever had in my entire being.”

“You’re quite good at what you do, Kurt. Don’t sell yourself short,” Vasco notes. 

“And he would know,” Alex adds. He leans into Vasco, and this is just natural and normal and comfortable. He rests his hand on Vasco’s thigh.

“I appreciate the votes of confidence. Don’t let it get around though.” Kurt snorts lightly. “But this kid, Reiner. I thought you might like to meet him. He would make a great personal guard for Constantin.”

“I could meet him tomorrow,” Alex says, already plotting out the next day’s agenda.

“Except he’s dead.” Kurt’s expression is dark and troubled in a way Alex has never seen. “They say he got drunk and drowned, which is completely unlike him. And no one could tell me which regiment he was really with when it happened. Even Manfred in the barracks has no idea, and usually he’s got all the most accurate information.”

Alex has never seen his old Man at Arms truly worried. Grim and glum, yes. Frustrated, yes. But worried? “What do you need me to do?” he asks. There’s no question that he will help Kurt with this. 

“They wouldn’t let me see his body. Said it was cut and dried drowning and even a captain had no reason to look. But the Legate…” Kurt watches him, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair.

“We could go now,” Alex suggests.

“After we’re all cozy for the night?” Vasco asks with a raised eyebrow. 

“Kurt was asking about him. If they’re hiding something, waiting gives them more opportunity to get rid of the body.” Nerves chew at Alex’s gut. It’s unlike Kurt to be so worried, and Kurt’s anxiety vibrates through the air and into him.

It’s a short walk down to the barracks. Torches in brackets light the streets, and people are headed home after a long day. “You again,” the doctor at the morgue’s front desk says with a wary sigh, as Kurt stands over his desk with his arms crossed. “I told you, drownings are common in port towns, especially among the youngsters.”

“Even so, Recruit Reiner was a personal friend and recruit of the Captain,” Alex interjects smoothly. “There are gaps in the story that I’d like to close, and will need to see the body in order to do so.” The doctor is about to refuse, Alex can see it in his eyes. “I’ve been away on business to the neighboring village and San Matheus, so I understand why you may not recognize me. I am Alexandre De Sardet, cousin of Governor Constantin and Legate of the Merchant Congregation. I thought I’d introduce myself, so you realize how close you are to obstructing official Congregation business.” 

“And this is why I brought you,” Kurt mutters when they’re given access to the back. “You going to be alright, after what you saw back in the Red Wood?”

Alex nods, though he might be lying to save face. He follows behind Kurt, and Vasco is behind him, nudging gently when Alex’s step falters. The smell hits him, reminds him of the battlefield and of his mother’s quarters, where she isolated herself as she died slowly. He swallows and holds his kerchief to his nose.

Reiner is laid out on a table, and Alex isn’t sure where to begin looking, but he knows immediately that the boy didn’t drown. Vasco leans in close, apparently unbothered by the smell. His practiced eyes look over the body. “I’ve seen many drowned bodies. He has no signs of it. No bloating, nothing. Lots of blunt force trauma, though.”

“That on the side of his head. May have been the killing blow.” Kurt’s voice is even, though Alex can see the regret etched on his features like another scar. “Heavens above and hells below, Reiner, I’m sorry, lad.” He removes his hat and covers his eyes with his hand. His shoulders tremble, but he takes a deep breath and lets it out in a hiss. He replaces his hat and Alex can’t see his eyes in the shadow of the brim.

He can see Reiner’s eyes, open and staring and lifeless. Begging them. Cursing them.

“We’ll find out what happened to him,” he promises in a choked voice. “You’re a good man, Kurt.”

“Don’t let it get around.” Kurt doesn’t look at him. He stares at the body before him and then stalks out.

“Let him go,” Vasco advises, hand on Alex’s shoulder. “Give him the time he needs. He knows you’re there for him.”

Alex nods and is suddenly so tired he could sleep right there on the morgue floor. “And I appreciate that you’re there for me,” he tells Vasco and they head out, followed by the cold gaze of the doctor. Once in the fresh night air his stomach settles, and his head clears. The moon overhead is bright, and the city is cloyingly close, like the stench of death he can’t wash away.

Instead of going home, Alex and Vasco stroll down to the dock and sit at the edge of Teer Fradee while the waves lap at the pilings and the smell of the sea washes over them. The moored ships creak with the tide. Alex imagines the swell of the sea, the sounds of the ship, and what it could be like to sail away with Vasco, leaving the greedy ploys and machinations of Teer Fradee’s colonies behind.

He turns Vasco’s face to his and searches his eyes, which are nearly black in the dark. He kisses the captain, firm but gentle, one hand curved around the back of his head, and his thumb brushing over the tattoos on his cheekbones. “I meant it when I said I’d sail with you,” he says, leaning in so their foreheads touch.

Vasco smiles. “I know.”


	22. If, Not When

_If, Not When_

Alex is sore and spent and it’s amazing waking up under a pile of warm blankets and silk sheets, completely naked with an equally naked Vasco twined around him like a vine. Vasco’s warmth seeps into his skin, like sunlight itself, like all those days at sea he’s absorbed the sun and held it for a moment just like this.

He could stay like this all day, but he’s never been one to have a lie in, especially when there’s work to be done: and as the Legate, there’s no shortage of that. He rolls over and Vasco’s arm tightens around his torso. “Just another moment to enjoy this,” Vasco breathes against his back. 

“Isn’t the captain usually up with the sunrise?” he teases, but turns back and pulls Vasco closer. He sifts his silky fair hair through his fingers, and if Vasco were a cat, he’d be purring right now.

“Yes, but only when in command. Since I’ve been relieved of command for the time being, I intend to take full advantage of it.” He nips at Alex’s ear and his flesh prickles. “That’s one thing I don’t think about much when on board. The fact that I’m constantly surrounded by people. When you’re a Naut, you’re always part of a crew.”

“Do you miss it?”

Vasco’s eyelashes flutter against his skin. “Yes and no. I miss my most recent crew; they’re a good lot, talented and fun and Flavia won’t ever tell you, but she sings lovelier than any opera house ingenue. But the longer I’m away the more I realize that I enjoy some solitude. To think. To be with someone I care for.”

It still makes Alex’s heart flutter to hear that and he’s pretty sure he’s in love with Vasco, but quite sure that he’s too afraid to tell him and scare him back to the sea. A fear that comes rushing back with the power of a tidal wave when Vasco mentions, “I was hoping you’d accompany me to the Port today. I have a need to meet with Admiral Cabral.”

“Of course,” Alex says, because what else can he say? He plants a kiss atop Vasco’s head and disengages himself.

“I don’t intend to set sail, if it sets your mind at ease,” Vasco tells him as he slips on his smallclothes and breeches. He buttons them and stands a moment, shirtless, with the cuts of his lean muscles shadowed in the morning light, the symmetrical swirls of ink singing his story down his torso. “And if the time comes that I’m summoned back to the helm, I promise to share that information with you so decisions can be made.” He takes a stride across the floor, cups Alex’s face in his hands, and softly kisses him. 

“If? Not when?”

“The sea is a fickle mistress, and sometimes the Admirals can be a tad fickle themselves. I believe I understand Cabral’s motives now, but there’s only one way to tell.” He drops his eyes, keeps one hand cupped over the birthmark on Alex’s face. In a strange way it tells a part of Alex’s story, but from a volume no one has opened yet. 

They forego their usual morning training routine and take breakfast at a small cafe in the Copper District. Vasco can eat a full hearty breakfast, but Alex is too nervous to eat more than some buttered toast and tea.  _ If, not when, _ he reminds himself. He’s never worried about being left before. But then again, he’s never been in love before, either. 

They’ve largely avoided the Port District of New Serene during business hours; but today Vasco squares his shoulders and straightens his tricorn and is every inch the confident and dashing captain. Alex smiles in spite of his anxieties, and follows a step behind. A cool sea breeze ruffles his hair and the gull calls overhead remind him of his months at sea. Aside from Constantin, he has no real reason to call New Serene home. Home could be wherever he makes it.

He banishes that thought for the time being. The Merchant Congregation needs him and his skills. He made a promise to his dying mother. He watches Vasco approach Cabral.  _ If, not when. _

The Admiral is slender but well-muscled, able to handle a ship as well as the strategies of directing the fleet commanders and keeping the captains in order. Her face is an open book, telling her many conquests and triumphs. A few curls of greying hair peek out from under her own hat, and her shrewd eyes miss nothing. “Fair winds, Captain Vasco,” she said with a nod.

“Fair winds to you as well, Admiral.” Vasco turns and gestures to Alex. “And please let me introduce Lord Alexandre De Sardet, Legate of the Merchant Congregation.”

“Pleasure, Admiral,” Alex says with a smile.

Cabral just nods, eyes fixed on his face, not meeting his eyes. The damned birthmark again. “Welcome, Excellency. I hope we were of good service to you and your cousin those weeks back.”

“Better than I could have hoped,” he says.  _ If, not when. _

“Thank you for that,” she tells him, but her eyes are back on Vasco. “So, my youngest and most decorated captain yet. Has your time on land taught you something?” She watches him, searching his own tattooed face. Something deeply Naut is happening here, which Alex does not understand, and has no say in, and is privileged to witness. He finds himself holding his breath.

Vasco couldn’t stand up straighter if he tried. He holds his chin up; the corners of his grey eyes crinkle just slightly. He tries to keep his expression neutral, though a smile is forming. “I have, and I thank you for giving me this time to learn more about myself.”

Alex’s heart catches in his chest. His stomach bottoms out with hollow guilt for helping Vasco, for trespassing in the warehouses, for…

“I’ve learned that I’m a Naut. A proud one. My thoughts of a different life were silly dreams compared to the life I’ve earned through the guild. I don’t wish for any name other than Vasco.”

If the sun chose this moment to break through the clouds, illuminating Vasco in golden light, it would be perfect.

Cabral’s smile, however, is bright enough for that. She almost seems relieved as well; what would she have done if her best captain had not returned, or returned sullen and insubordinate. But she’s also proud of him for claiming this, for being himself, for realizing just who he is and what that means. And it leaves Alex feeling proud to bursting as well.

Her smile fades and she becomes serious once more. “You’re ready then? To prove it?”

“Prove what?” Alex blurts out as Vasco, very certainly, says, “Absolutely.”

“The final step is what we Nauts call a Loyalty Mission,” Cabral explains. “Vasco has proven in word that he’s learned what I intended; and now he must prove in deed that he is committed to it.”

Vasco has always said exactly what he means: he has no tolerance for the veiled euphemisms of court language, preferring either silence or a blunter diplomacy that is refreshing. He can dance with words as well as he can with a sword, but prefers not to. He says what he means, and Alex is  _ almost _ offended on Vasco’s behalf, until Vasco turns those mysteriously grey eyes on him, gives him a smile, reminds him that he’s a Naut and can handle Naut business. Takes his hand, even in full view of Cabral and anyone else on the pier. “I’m committed. Give me my mission, Admiral.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I got a little ambitious and I'm trying to do NaNoWriMo this month as well! I'm working on my NaNo project and this :D


	23. Night Training

_Night Training_

Petrus and Kurt join them on the road to the Wenshaganaw region, and Siora meets up with them further down the western road. “Got someone to talk,” Kurt mutters, walking alongside Alex. “There’s a ghost camp in Wenshaganaw. Reiner had been sent there. Something about elite training squads, but it doesn’t really add up. Can we check it out?”

Alex glances over at Vasco, who nods. “The wreck of the  _ Oriflamme _ isn’t going anywhere,” he says with a wry smile. “If we can stop more young guards meeting the same fate as Reiner? I’m all for it.”

Siora elects to move on toward the village of Wenshaveye to meet with her people there, but Alex suspects she just doesn’t want to be around Petrus. Alex himself finds Petrus kind, personable, and knowledgeable; but something about the way he watches him makes him nervous. Like Petrus is seeing something that Alex can’t see within himself. And what’s worse is Petrus looks sad, or maybe disappointed.

“I apologize if I’ve somehow failed you, Bishop,” Alex finally says when they’ve crossed into the Wenshaganaw region. Here the air is damp and tangy with salt and it makes him feel cool and clammy--and Vasco looks as close to home as he can get while not aboard a ship. 

“You’ve not disappointed or failed me in any way, my child,” Petrus assures him with a forced smile that doesn’t do much to convince Alex that this is the case. “You… you remind me of my own failings when I was much younger. Oh dear, that came out very wrong,” he says suddenly, chagrined and looking away.

“Something about you flusters him,” Vasco murmurs. He waves for Alex to follow off the road and stands behind a tree, turning his back to the road and giving the pretext that he’s relieving himself. “He can’t meet your eye, and every time he does look at you, it’s like you’re a ghost.”

“Last I checked I was very much alive.” 

“Lucky for me.” Vasco leans in for a brief kiss.

Kurt leads them through winding pathways between high rocky passages. His jaw is set, his step hard on the overgrown gravel paths. He doesn’t look back, as if afraid the ghost of Reiner is following him. Alex does glance back every so often to see what may be pursuing them, but sees only glimpses of overgrown meadow and a winding rocky path.

He’s beginning to think there’s nothing here, but the path rises and they approach a solid, spike-tipped log wall stretching between two rocky outcroppings. Only his status as Legate forces the guards to begrudgingly let their little party enter. The gate swings inward and they walk in just as a solid man with a sour face walks toward them. “Commander Kurt,” he says and his voice drips amusement.

“Rolf,” Kurt spits.

“We’re tracking the death of one of Kurt’s recruits,” Alex interjects, placing himself between the two men, arms crossed over his chest. “Our sources pointed to here. Reiner?”

Rolf’s face is blank and slow to respond; perhaps he’s been hit one time too many. “Reiner. Yes. Bright boy. Kurt’s got an eye for talent. It’s a shame, really. Died during a training exercise.”

“In the harbor?” Alex stares into that doughy stupid face. 

“It’s unfortunate how the coverup was handled,” Rolf says in a way that says ‘unfortunate’ is a synonym for ‘stupid’. “If they’d just come back you wouldn’t be wasting your time here.”

Kurt inhales and Alex backs up a step, forcing his friend backward as well. “Since we are here, I’d love to have a look around. The Guard is the Congregation’s line of defense, after all.” He smiles, flat and wide and stony. He’s not backing down, and after a moment of being stared down, Rolf understands that they won’t just be leaving. “Fine, but don’t distract the men for too long. We’ve got training to do.”

From the looks of things the men in the training pit have been at it for hours beneath the sun. One leans against a wooden wall, breathing heavily and eyeing his lieutenant warily. She barely moves a muscle in his direction and he pushes himself off the wall and back into the endless drill sequences. “Captain!” the lieutenant says with wide eyes and surprise evident in her voice, as Kurt approaches. “We weren’t expecting visitors.”

“I’m sure you weren’t.” Kurt’s voice is heavy with accusation, dripping venom that would burn holes in the rocks at his feet. “We’re looking in about Reiner.”

“Ah, Reiner.” She shakes her head, feeds them another story that doesn’t match what Rolf told them, and leaves Kurt red-faced and mad enough to spit. 

“Kurt, perhaps the lieutenant can show you about a little? You’d understand the training and terminology far better than me,” Alex says with a bright and slightly stupid smile. He loves when people underestimate him. “I can wait here with Vasco.”

“Yes. Take the… fresh air,” Vasco adds and can’t help wrinkling his nose. “And I thought Nauts were secretive,” Vasco grumbles. “I hope you’ve a plan behind that slack grin of yours?”

“You know you love it,” Alex tells him. He descends into the training pit; the soldiers don’t pause, just keep going at one another as though their lives depend on it. The air smells of sweat, blood, dirt, and old leather and metal. He weaves amid the fighting and finds the man who’d pushed off the wall. His face is blotchy red and sweat rolls down his temples. “Excuse me, do you have a moment?”

When the man’s eyes go wide enough to see the whites, Alex realizes this is just a boy. He immediately looks up and doesn’t see his lieutenant. “Excellency. I… I would love to speak, but I have training and—”

“Your lieutenant’s gone for a walk; we just have a couple questions.” Vasco’s voice is smooth and calming, and he takes note of the way the boy looks around nervously. “Our friend the captain lost a recruit recently and is taking it hard.”

“Reiner,” the boy says, and Alex’s heart leaps. “He was more vocal than most about what’s going on here. I’m not surprised he ended up dead, just surprised it took someone this long to find out about it.”

The boy, Wilhelm, shares his experiences in low whispers, eyes flicking round to see who’s listening. Alex glances about: most are embroiled in their training, but that doesn’t mean anything. He already suspects the worst, and his fears are confirmed when Kurt returns with Rolf and the lieutenant. “The elites of these units will see to your continued protection, Excellency,” Rolf insists, and Alex believes that about as much as he believes in the Illumined of Theleme.

They don’t make it far outside of the camp before Vasco has to stop Kurt from breaking his hand punching a rock wall. “You want to hit something? Hit me,” Vasco snaps, standing between Kurt and the rock. “You want to fight? Fine.” He draws his sword and lunges at Kurt. The sound of steel rings out in the gorge as the two fight: both master swordsmen, but Vasco’s calm is his advantage. He lets Kurt strike and blocks and feints, never tiring, and always watching.

“Infighting won’t accomplish much,” Petrus mutters to Alex.

“Kurt has a temper. Vasco’s helping him blow off steam, in a controlled fight where he won’t regret anything after,” Alex says. It’s a nearly matched battle, but Vasco has the endurance and agility to out-move Kurt at every step, even if Kurt’s sword is half a length longer than his. Finally Kurt drops his sword and yields.

“Thanks for that, Captain,” he says as he catches his breath. “Saved me from running headlong into something stupid. Rolf’s a right bastard, and if he’s in charge of this operation, there’s worse going on than I saw.”

“Oh there’s worse. That’s a given.” Vasco sheaths his sword and shakes out his hair. Sweaty strands cling to and glisten on his face. His expression is grim. “Some captains get a bad reputation for running their crews too hard; served under my fair share, if we’re being honest. Those pale in comparison to what I saw earlier.”

Alex looks between his lover and his oldest friend: both grim determined, both sharing memories he can’t. “I suppose that settles it,” he says casually, and Kurt, Vasco, and Petrus stare at him. “We just have to go back after nightfall.”

“You’re daft, Greenblood.”

“You still like me.”

“Don’t tell anyone.” Kurt manages to crack a sort-of smile before disappearing into the wood for a bit.

“I agree with him, for what it’s worth,” Vasco says. He leans against a tree, arms crossed over his chest, staring at Alex with a measure of concern and amusement. “They’ll be on high alert. I’m not sure I want to infiltrate an assassin training camp. Because that’s what it is, you realize.”

“I do.” Alex pulls him away from the tree, sits down with him beside the small fire. He wraps an arm around Vasco’s shoulders. “I also realize that this has become personal for Kurt. He’s a good man, no matter what he says.”

“You are too,” Vasco tells him.

“You think so?”

“I do. I trust my feelings about people. Haven’t steered me wrong before. I’m not going to start doubting now.”

“Captain Vasco, don’t go stealing my breath away before a mission,” Alex teases.

From a nearby stand of saplings, Petrus watches. The Legate’s smile pains him; the sound of his laugh twists like a knife in his gut. When the Naut captain kisses the mark on his face, tears prick his eyes. That beautiful mark. 

* * *

In the end there’s no need to be silent, because the ghost camp is devoid of life. “This is bad,” Petrus observes. 

“This is worse than bad.” Kurt’s voice actually  _ quavers _ . “Training sites and barracks only empty after hours for one reason. And I thought it was banned by the Commander when he took his position.” He stalks toward the barracks and Alex has no choice but to follow as a cold pit grows in his stomach. Now Kurt is  _ worried _ , and Kurt has never  _ done _ worried before.

Kurt is confident enough in his assessment that he storms into the barracks, where no recruits wait to attack them. He mutters under his breath as he rummages through Rolf’s office at the top of the stairs. “Fuck me,” he growls as he skims a sheaf of letters. “Torsten’s going to  _ pay _ .”

“Kurt?” Vasco asks. “What’s night training?” Kurt looks up, face white in the pale glow of Alex’s small light spell. “There’s a list here. People summoned to night training. They didn’t even need to add ‘or else’ to the end to make it ominous.”

Alex takes over collecting the papers before Kurt forgets. Documentation is everything in these situations. He skims some of the information himself and that cold pit gnaws away at him. It gets worse when Vasco taps his shoulder. “Wilhelm’s on the list.”

“If we don’t get to him, that boy’s blood is on our hands, same as Reiner’s,” Kurt announces. 

“Is anyone going to share what night training means?” Alex asks. It could be exactly what it sounds like. Kurt’s expression says it isn’t.

“Recruits who cause problems need extra training,” Kurt tells him in a flat voice. He leads the way down the stairs to the basement and procures a key he found in the office. He pushes open the door and the smell hits them like a wall. Blood, piss, sweat, rotting meat. Petrus gags; Alex swallows the sudden lump in his throat. Bile stings at the back of his mouth. This isn’t a basement; it boasts a torture rack that may still hold scraps of skin. A wall of cruel-looking implements is next to it, and a poker is still in the fire.

“And here I complained about Naut training methods,” Vasco says softly. He lays a hand on Kurt’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Kurt.”

“Didn’t think I’d see the inside of one of these rooms again,” Kurt says, voice so soft Alex has to lean in to hear him. His voice is so soft it suggests a past Kurt has not shared, does not wish to share, and is suddenly reliving. 

“This list: the name Reiner appears several times,” Petrus says as he skims over a piece of paper. “Your boy gave them trouble,” he adds with a kind smile.

“Glad he did, but it won’t bring him back. We need to save Wilhelm,” Kurt decides.

“What about Rolf?”

Kurt shakes his head. “He can wait. I can’t live with myself if we don’t help that boy. Especially since he’s probably getting a beating because he spoke with us.”

After that there’s no question of finding Wilhelm and the other recruits; Alex has no idea how they’ll find them in this unfamiliar territory, even with his brightest light spell guiding them. But Kurt has lived this life, and Kurt knows what to listen for, and he leads the way over the twisting roots and rocky paths that threaten to take any one of them down with a twisted knee or broken ankle.

They pull up short at the entrance to a moonlit clearing where a ring of armored recruits are pummeling every inch of Wilhelm with everything from tree-branch clubs to their bare fists. Even Wilhelm’s lieutenant is in on it. “Stop!” Alex shouts. He hasn’t thought through this choice, hasn’t considered what he’ll do if they not only don’t stop, but start in on him as well. “In the name of the Congregation of Merchants, I demand you tell me what’s going on here!”

“We don’t owe you any obedience,” snarls the lieutenant. “Recruits! Show him what you’re made of!”

“No.” Kurt’s voice is firm. “I believe captain outranks lieutenant, and I say this is the end of night training. Do you men want more blood on your hands?” They stare between their fuming lieutenant, and Kurt, who does outrank her, regardless of where they’re located. “This isn’t the way of the guard. This isn’t fighting with honor. This isn’t what you were recruited for, or signed on for.” 

Wilhelm is curled in a fetal position on the ground, blood dripping from his head, but he looks up. One eye is swollen shut. The others stare at Kurt, then at Wilhelm, and the sudden silence is as deep and haunted as the grave. One boy drops his club. Another shivers violently before turning and retching. “I didn’t train you to go soft, recruits!” the lieutenant shouts. “Take him down!” She pulls out her mace. No one else moves. One tiny flicker of fear flits across her face before she rushes Kurt anyway. 

Kurt draws his sword lightning fast and holds it before him. She’s running too fast, can’t stop in time, and then blood is trickling from her mouth and the point of Kurt’s sword is sticking into a critical joint in her armor. He twists and she makes a terrible gurgling sound before he pulls his sword out. “Recruits,” he calls, gently. “Wilhelm is wounded. Take him back and get him help.”

“But Rolf--” 

“Will be dealt with next,” Kurt promises.

* * *

Rolf puts up a token fight, but in the end he goes down just like his lieutenants. This leaves a regiment of exhausted, mentally and physically tortured soldiers wandering about listlessly. They eye one another, and Alex wonders how many of them participated in night trainings with the others. How many came out of it alive, how many will be able to heal from this. They stay at the barracks that night so Kurt can arrange a squad to run things until someone from New Serene can show up to officially close the camp. Kurt is efficient and kind, and he’s accomplished something great here today.

But Alex still gets the feeling that there is much from which his friend still has to heal.


	24. Guardian

_Guardian_

Vasco stands with his boots at the very edge of the cliff overlooking the cove below. The slightest breeze could blow him forward, send him soaring: but to his death on the rocks below, or would he catch the currents and fly? Standing there like this, he’s like the figurehead of some ship. He stares out at the dark line of the horizon as the sun rises behind them. “Come see it,” he says without turning.

Alex catches his breath and shuffles closer, but he can’t quite make himself get as close as Vasco. He lacks the captain’s balance and grace and confidence in the face of nature. He inches toward the edge, enough that he can see over. The hulking corpse of the  _ Oriflamme _ rests on the dark sands like a beached whale. Tatters of sail flutter in the breeze and the beach is scattered with debris.

“Don’t you ever fear this happening to you?” he asks in a low voice filled with reverence and fear. In some far-flung future, this could be his lover’s fate.

“Always.” Vasco’s sure answer does nothing to ease the queasiness in him. He turns and the rising sun illuminates his face, bringing the linework to life, or maybe that’s the slightly sad smile he wears. “Naut ships rarely sink, and if they do wind up like that… well. That’s what the Admiral has sent me to investigate.”

“To prove your loyalty.”

“Aye.”

Alex doesn’t want to think about what could cause a ship such as the  _ Oriflamme _ to end up broken on the beaches of Teer Fradee. What lurks in the waters? What could make a Naut choose death on the rocks over trying their luck on the sea?

The path to the wreck leads them into the village of Wenshaveye, where Siora joins them, and Kurt departs for New Serene to start the plan to clear the former ghost camp. “Your cities have taught me much, but time with the  _ doneigad _ of this clan has filled my heart and mind,” she explains, and she truly does seem far calmer than she has since right after Alex met her.

“Did your  _ doneigad _ friend mention anything about the shipwreck?” Vasco asks as they stroll down the pathway and into a dank cavern, where the smell of rotting seaweed hangs in the air and the sound of the ocean is constant and muffled.

“This cove is not home to many fish, and if the ships of the  _ renaigse _ have found their doom on the rocks, it is not his concern. I am sorry, Vasco, I know very little.”

“Worth a shot,” Vasco tells her with a sincere smile that Siora returns. It always amazes Alex to watch Vasco with other people: how quickly he can put them at ease, once they get past his impressive exterior, how easily he talks with people of all classes. Alex has been told he’s a natural diplomat, but he knows he can still learn so much from Vasco.

They round a corner, but there is no blinding sunlight to greet them: the shadow of the  _ Oriflamme _ fills the beach. It was big enough from above, but this close Alex can see its tattered sails and jaggedly broken masts, its broken ribs and split hull spilling out its innards on the shore. What the tide hasn’t sucked back into the ocean depths lies scattered on the sand, bloated and starting to rot. 

It’s terrible to behold.

Vasco’s lightheartedness has been replaced by the cold, stony captain’s stance he’d held that day on the docks of Serene. He stares in silence, arms crossed over his chest, sea-grey eyes observing. They are standing at a grave site. Alex believes in what he can see, what he can touch and sense. He’s never asked Vasco what he believes, so he just edges closer to him and rests his hand on his shoulder. Vasco covers it with his own and they stand there a moment longer before Vasco straightens up, all professional Naut.

“Right then. Our ships are nigh unsinkable, so if this one wrecked, I need to discover why. Bishop, if you’re not squeamish, see to the bodies? See if there’s anything: journals, diaries, notes… something to give us a lead. Siora, come with me--I have an idea of what may have happened, and think you’d be able to help.” He fixes his grey eyes on Alex. “Mind helping the Bishop?”

“Whatever you need me to do, Vasco.” He joins Petrus, walking in the soft sand under the shadow of the ship. 

There is no rush; the dead aren’t going anywhere and the  _ Oriflamme _ has sailed its last voyage. They search in silence for a time, kneeling in the sand, pawing through damp coats on swollen bodies; the bloating distorts the ink on many sallow, waxen faces and Alex catches himself wondering who they were: what they saw, where they sailed, and if any had sailed under Vasco.

There’s not much to find; they pocket what coin they find so it can be returned to the Nauts: their family. Alex finds a compass on one, a handful of bullets on another. All the gunpowder is wet and useless, the pistols beginning to rust and the mechanisms eaten at by the salt. Crabs skitter away as they approach bodies.

The ship’s shadow shifts, the only indication that time is passing. The silence between himself and Petrus is awkward, so he focuses on the dead; they don’t care that he can think of nothing to say. Alex spies the line of seaweed left by high tide, and figures anything else would have been washed out to sea; he starts to search further up the shore and spies a small cave. “I’m going to check this out,” he calls to Petrus.

Here it is shadowed and chilly out of the sunlight, and the acoustics of the rock formations muffle the waves and the voices of his companions. Remains of wooden crates litter the sands. He spies a bloated and pale foot sticking out of the mouth of the cave and his chest tightens. Alex approaches slowly and calls up a light spell to see better. The foot is still attached to the full body, so he kneels down and rummages through the salt-crusted coat. His fingers brush a book, and he pulls it out.

“Vasco!” he calls, and holds up the book.

The strike comes from behind, slamming into his back and sending him flying across the beach. Alex sees the grey sands rushing at him, feels his chest constrict as he lands face first on the beach and can’t breathe. Something cracks inside of him and the pain makes him see stars. He forces himself up on his forearms and coughs, spluttering and spitting sand out of his mouth and trying to wipe it from his eyes.

“Alex!” Vasco skids to a stop and kneels to help him up. “What happened?”

But Alex can’t quite catch his breath, and the pressure in his chest and head is building. He gestures to his torso, and the twisted grimace must be enough for Vasco to guess that he’s broken a couple of ribs. Siora thrusts a small vial into his hand and helps him drink. The pain ebbs and his breath comes back with each gasp. “Something in the cave,” he manages, and hands Vasco the book.

“It’s not in the cave any longer,” Petrus announces. He stands and holds out his hands, and a barrier of magical energy envelopes them. 

Alex leans heavily on Vasco and gets to his feet. The pain in his chest has abated, but only to a throbbing ache. Next to him, Vasco and Siora draw swords. Before him, the strangest creature he’s ever seen lumbers down the beach. It walks upright, but hunched, and its front paws boast huge, curved claws. Its mouth is at the center of four whipping tentacles, each with barbed hooks at the end. The creature roars, a sound like the tide coming in on a stormy day, and electrical currents flow down its tentacles. 

The first strike weakens Petrus’s barrier. The second brings it down. The third scatters them all, and the fourth smashes into the rocks. Of all the strange creatures Alex has seen so far, this one is the strangest. “Does this support your theory?” Siora calls to Vasco, who nods and brandishes his sword. 

“This is probably what did it,” he agrees. 

They fall into a rhythm of striking at the creature, until it burrows and begins tunneling through the beach. Petrus is knocked back and hits his head on the rocks--even with his helmet it leaves him dazed. Vasco fires his gun at the movement in the sand, but the creature is too fast. Alex watches, foggy from the potion, and unsure of what’s happening. 

“Glendemen, no!” Siora calls, and adds something in her language that Alex can’t quite make out.

He stumbles back as the creature erupts from the ground in a burst of sand and rock and shell. They stare, eye to eye for one moment, and then it whips its head and one tentacle catches him. It tears through his coat, through his clothing, from hip to shoulder, through skin and muscle and to bone. Another flick of its head, and another tentacle sends him flying backward.

Alex won’t ever forget blue sky and white clouds, and the way the sun catches the red droplets of blood that sail through the air. The pain burns through him like fire. He lands, hard, in the sand. He can’t breathe and this time is worse because this time he’s face up, staring at the serene sky with nothing suffocating him except his own blood. The tide is coming in, cold and stinging, and the seafoam it leaves behind is pink with his blood.

Glendemen stops and stares as Alex’s blood soaks into the sand. And then, as quickly as it attacked, it shuffles back into its cave.

Vasco’s face replaces the sky. A thin line of blood snakes from the corner of his mouth, and his grey eyes are red-rimmed and puffy. “Alexandre. Alex. My Tempest,” he murmurs and pulls away the scraps of Alex’s clothing. His eyes widen and for the first time ever Alex sees fear there. Vasco looks young and scared and only now Alex remembers Vasco is younger than he is.

He wants to tell him it’s alright, that things will be fine. He reaches up to touch Vasco’s beautiful face, and his fingers brush over his cheek and leave behind streaks of blood. So much blood. No one can lose this much blood. Can they?

“Stay with us, Tempest,” Vasco orders. Siora murmurs something next to him, and some of the pain goes away, but not enough. And her words can’t put his blood back into him, can’t make him start breathing again, can’t alleviate the darkness closing in.

The last thing he sees is Vasco leaning in, closer and closer, to give his breath back.


	25. All for Naut

_All for Naut_

“You should sleep.” Siora’s voice is soft over the crackle of the fire. She sits next to Vasco on the packed earth floor. “I can stay with him.”

Vasco rubs the grit out of his eyes and blinks Siora into focus. “I’ve kept watch longer than this, but thank you.” He rests his head on the edge of the cot again, one hand slipped beneath Alex’s limp fingers. “And if things should…”

“Catasach is the greatest healer on Tir Fradi.” Siora places a hand on Alex’s forehead. “His fever still burns, though.” She sighs. “The Guardian’s wound runs deep.”

‘Deep’ may be an understatement. Vasco’s seen wounds of all shapes, sizes and levels of severity. Alex’s torso is torn from hip to the opposite shoulder. Vasco can still see the bright white of Alex’s broken ribs, the glistening pink of his muscles, the ruby of his blood welling up, soaking his clothes, soaking the sands. The healer packed the wound with some mossy mixture, and replaces it every few hours. During that time a gauzy sheet is laid over this torso, keeping the wound as clean as possible. A heavier blanket covers his waist down.

Siora dips a rag in the nearby bucket and dabs the sweat away from Alex’s ashen face. He doesn’t move a muscle--though he keeps breathing. It’s shallow, but it’s there. She wipes his hair back off his forehead, and pauses to stare at his birthmark. “There is no denying he is bound to this land,” she comments. Vasco turns to watch her. “The Glendemen is a guardian of the shores. The guardians protect our people, especially the  _ on ol menawi _ . It stopped when his blood spilled into the ground. When it felt it.”

Vasco nods and shifts on the ground; he’s stiff and sore--he didn’t escape the fight unscathed either. He’s long thought about Alex’s birthmark and what it means. He’s touched it, kissed it, gazed on it. He’s heard how the natives call him  _ on ol menawi _ , but no one has ever said what it means. He has his own markings, but they are only skin deep; the ink merely tells a story, rather than give him power, at least not in the sense of markings like Siora’s.

He imagines his cheek still tingles where Alex’s clumsy fingers brushed over it, streaking blood over his face as the light left his golden-green eyes.

Suddenly he’s being shaken again. “Sleep, Vasco,” she says firmly, though not unkindly. She points to the bedroll she’s laid out next to Alex’s cot. “I’d not ask you to leave him--no one here would. But you must rest.”

He’s experienced exhaustion before: you don’t make it to captain without full day-night rotations. This is different: this is a weariness tempered with fear, edged with anguish just waiting to come out when the inevitable occurs. But he lies down anyway and his eyes close as his head hits the ground.

He dreams strange things: storms that engulf his ship, waves that rise up and never break. A sunrise that turns the sea to crackling flames.

Vasco groans and forces his eyelids apart: the fire has been stoked once more, and the healer Catasach has done an admirable job of moving silently around him. The man moves about him replacing the mosses and whispering over the wounds. “His fever has broken,” Catasach says without looking at Vasco. “The bleeding is nearly staunched as well. It is likely I may begin the stitching today.”

Last he remembers, it was night. Panic momentarily flutters in the pit of his stomach--something Vasco hasn’t felt since he was a child--and he sits up quickly. He examines his lover’s face: still ashen, though some of the color has returned to his lips. “Thank you for all you’re doing,” Vasco ventures.

“I’ve seen far worse from tenlan bites,” Catasach says with a kind smile, though Vasco can’t tell if there is irony there. He passes his hands over Alex’s bared torso, humming under his breath and waving a censer. The perfumed smoke is pleasant and heady and invigorating, in spite of his exhaustion. “Get some fresh air and some food and drink,” Catasach advises.

Vasco hesitates but he is thirsty, and needs to relieve himself. He pauses at the exit to take another look at Alex, who looks nothing like Alex. Catasach shoos him away with a wave of his hand and Vasco leaves with a sigh. He’s sailed rough seas before; but he can read the sea, feel it in his bones and feel the ship beneath him and around him as it responds to the sea and to his control at the helm. Even at its wildest, he can understand, can handle the sea.

He can’t handle death. 

He doesn’t dare stray far from the healer’s hut; but where to go? Whenever he passes the villagers they look at him strangely and he hears  _ renaigse _ whispered. The fact that they keep the company of a mind shaker doesn’t do much for their reputation, either. He weathers the stares, because he’s used to it. His tattoos may only be skin-deep, but they are armor, proclaiming who he is and what he’s done and protecting the man beneath. The man who stands to lose the first, maybe only, person he’s ever loved.

Siora finds him standing on a hillock a ways off overlooking the ocean. The grey sky holds hints of violet and tinges of green, like a bruise, and he can smell the storm on the air. She hands him a waterskin. “If you are also hungry I’ll get you something to eat,” she offers.

He shakes his head. “Thanks, but I’m not sure I’d keep it down.”

“I figured as much. I can go if you’d like?”

Somewhere far beyond the horizon the sea seizes as the storm boils. He’s never been alone. Nauts, as a rule, don’t do ‘alone’. Sea-Born or Given, they are part of a crew from day one. Vasco gazes out at the immensity of the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky and his eyes burn until he has to rub them to stop the pulsing.  _ How do you stand it? _ Alex once asked. And if Vasco were to be left alone now, he’d be left with memories and regrets of things left unsaid, things left undone, opportunities not taken, seas not sailed.

“Please stay,” he tells her. Siora sits cross-legged on the ground and Vasco joins her. They sit in silence; the breeze picks up and smells of salt and rain and promises of a storm. “The seasons are changing,” he says at last, more to break the silence than because he cares.

“As a little girl I used to hate the winters because they were so cold. Nothing grew, and it was always so ugly,” Siora tells him. A hint of a smile touches her features. "But as I trained in the ways of the  _ doneigada _ , I learned that there is a natural cycle to all things. Without the autumn, the trees do not let their seeds fly or their leaves fall. Without the winter, those fallen leaves do not insulate and allow the seeds to open so they can grow in the spring and summer. And then there is a greater cycle.”

“Life and death.” Siora nods and Vasco pulls one knee to his chest, and rests his arm on it. “It was always hard losing a crew mate, and then losing one of my men once I had my own crew. I was entrusted with someone’s life, and someone trusted me to lead them.”

“How did you cope with it?”

He shrugs. “Some captains hit the bottle, and hard. But it doesn’t make you feel any better, and doesn’t help the men still looking to you. I had to accept that the sea takes what’s hers.”

“And how is he different?”

Vasco winces. Siora watches him calmly, her own hazel eyes curious and thoughtful and he knows she’s experienced loss, and recently at that. He has to think beyond the obvious-- _ Because I’m in love with the man-- _ to just why this is so different than losing anyone else. Why Alex is different: from any Naut, from any noble, and just beyond his appearance? “I’ve always felt that the sea is my home. Doesn’t matter which ship I’m on, so long as I’m on the water I’m home. With him… I don’t have to be on the water, or even near it to get that feeling.”

Siora rests a hand on his. “You love him.” 

“I do. And…” Out of habit he looks around to see who’s listening in, but it’s only Siora. As close as he is to the ocean, he’s far from the Nauts. Rumors have a way of swimming to the admirals, but he trusts Siora. He  _ has _ to believe he can trust her. “The other difference is that I’m usually following my own orders. What happens is usually out of my hands. I let my pride and my ambition get the better of me, which got me landlocked, which got me into this shite mess.” He runs his fingers through his windblown hair. “He was following me because I asked him to. I led him to this.”

“He followed because he loves you too,” Siora tells him. Tears glisten in the corners of her eyes. “He wants you to be happy. He wants you to succeed. He’s proud of you.”

After that she does leave him alone with his thoughts, but they’re less haunted now. If not for Alex, he’d not know who he really is--on many levels. 

The solitude and fresh air seep into him, and if he closes his eyes he can imagine he’s on deck waiting for a storm to break. He rolls up his shirtsleeves and leans back on his elbows, into the soft grasses, and the illusion falls apart. But he doesn’t care: he’s exactly where he needs to be right now.

In the following days there’s little else he can do but keep vigil, and the stiffness in his muscles becomes more pronounced. He used to rise with the sun and go through his paces on deck when only the last watch was in the crow’s nest struggling to stay awake. As often as possible in New Serene he would wake and practice. Now he stumbles out of the hut at mid-morning or later, or sometimes so early the sun is just a thought below the line of the horizon.

On board there is routine, and that’s what he establishes for himself now. He and Petrus spar in the mornings in the misty fields outside of the village. Vasco focuses on blocking Petrus’s spells with his sword, deflecting the energy away from himself. Petrus fights with a precision Alex lacks, and his control over his power is better honed. It requires all of Vasco’s focus to make it through an hour of training unscathed.

“You will tell him when he wakes, right?” Petrus asks as they fill their skins at a stream after an intense session.

“There are many things to tell. Like how I keep you on your toes,” Vasco jibes. He grins, but quickly takes a swig of his water and turns away.

“I’m an old man, Captain Vasco, but I recognize love when I see it.” Petrus’s voice is softer, and there’s something: sadness? In his otherwise shrewd gaze. Vasco does not face him. He sits at the edge of the stream and dips his kerchief in the cold water, dabs away the sweat and tries to cool the flush burning in his cheeks. “Don’t leave things unsaid when you still have the chance to say it. That’s all I’m offering,” Petrus tells him before walking away.

In the afternoons Vasco pores over the book that nearly killed Alex. All captains keep a journal: a log of daily routines on the ship, storms, strange things spotted, new discoveries, notes for an admiral. Captain Cezar’s notes are pretty standard: commentary on the weather, notes about illness making the rounds on the crew. Mainsail repairs a few months back, lots of blurred ink and pages stuck together. Not much is different from Vasco’s own reports, though he tends to include more about individual crew members.

Nothing indicates so far that the  _ Oriflamme _ ’s final voyage was anything out of the ordinary. 

He tells Alex all of this in the evenings, letting him hear his voice while he wipes away the sweat with a cool cloth. Sometimes he recites poetry, and often, he recites _their_ poem: over and over, always punctuating “My Tempest” with a light kiss on his forehead or knuckles. Catasach insists the healing is progressing well: better than can be expected. He sewed the wound a few days back, and now a medicinal poultice covers the wound. It will leave a scar: there is no way around it. 

The lamps are low and Catasach sits across his dwelling, grinding herbs to replenish his potions store. The air smells sweet, maybe a little pungent, but Vasco’s grown used to the smell. So different from the cold bite of the ocean, but not unpleasant. He sits on the floor in just his trousers, his shirt drying on a line outside, his hair still damp from the bath he took in a nearby pool. He leans his back against the rail of the cot, flipping the warped pages of Cezar’s journal.

Alex’s hand shifts, falls off the edge of the cot and onto his shoulder. And his fingers twitch in the damp strands of hair. Vasco holds his breath a moment, waiting, but the movement is too intentional to be accidental. He sets the book down beside him and turns.

Alex’s eyes are half opened, and he offers the tiniest half-smile to match. His lips move, though his voice is nonexistent.  _ Love you. _

Vasco takes his hand, brushes his hair off his forehead. “Love you too.”


	26. This Bitter Sea

_This Bitter Sea_

All he wants to do is sleep, though Vasco tells him he’s slept for over a week. Stiffness and exhaustion settle deep into Alex’s bones, some from being so still so long, and more due to the variety of potions Catasach and Siora offer him. Days must pass, but he can’t tell, not in the dimness of the healer’s hut, and he passes from fitful sleep to restless waking. Vasco recites poetry he’s memorized, and brings word that Petrus prays for him three times a day or more.

Vasco holds him up as Siora slips a small stack of cushions under him, elevating him a bit. Pain sears through him like wildfire, and when he tries to breathe pitiful whimpers escape him. His vision is blurry with tears and he wants to feel furious with himself for showing such weakness, but just this much exertion has left him too tired.

“Do you remember what happened?” Vasco asks the next time he’s lucid. Vasco has pulled his hair back, and the light of the lamps showcases his high cheekbones and sharp jaw. He’s rolled up his sleeves, and sits gingerly on the edge of the cot. He gently takes Alex’s hand when he goes to scratch an itch at the edge of the grey-brown poultice covering his torso in a long line.

“I keep trying to remember, but the last thing I recall was telling you I’d found a book. I’m sorry. Were you ever able to find out…”

“If you apologize again I’ll have to have strong words with you.” Vasco tries to glare at him from under his eyebrows, but he can’t keep up the charade and ends up smiling. “If I never found out what happened to that damned ship, I wouldn’t care--so long as you survived.”

“Don’t…” He tries to stifle a dry cough and his whole body throbs. Vasco is quick with a wooden cup of water that he helps Alex drink. It’s kind of humiliating: the Legate of the Merchant Congregation unable to even take a drink himself. “Don’t say such things. It was your loyalty mission.”

The intensity of Vasco’s gaze disarms him, as does the way Vasco holds his hand and runs his thumb over his knuckles. “There are more important things than loyalty, and I’ll sentence you to a keel hauling if you try to contradict me again.”

Each day he sits up a little more, each day Catasach examines his horrific wound and reapplies the poultice. Some days the herbs smell sweet, and others the smell makes Alex nauseous. He subsists on weak broth and an herbal tea, and when the nausea gets bad, Siora adds mint or ginger to it. He tries not to feel horrible humiliation when Vasco and Catasach help him move his legs. After nearly two weeks abed, he’s stiff and weak.

“You should be used to being waited on, Excellency,” Vasco teases. His hands are warm on Alex’s bare foot, helping him rotate his ankle and flex his toes.

“Not like this.” 

“Why not?” Vasco rests a hand on his shin. 

“Because I don’t have a choice in this.” Alex looks away and tries pulling the blanket up, but the movement stings as the edges of the poultice pull at his skin and his chest hair.

“You’d make a poor Naut with those thoughts.” A smile tugs at Vasco’s lips and he helps Alex adjust the blanket.

He tries to recall that day on the beach, but the images are elusive, like staring into a broken mirror. Some things seem real, but if he looks at it another way, that way is real, too. It would be easier to sleep, but that too has become elusive, and Catasach is sparing with the sleeping draughts. 

Those nights, when Vasco snores lightly from the floor, and Catasach may or may not be sleeping across the hut, he recalls snatches of the dream he had when he was unconscious. It could have gone on the entire time, or just at the end, or in bits and pieces, but all he has now are the impressions. He clings to those because they are all he can remember between standing on the beach, waving down Vasco, and waking up to the healer’s hut.

“Tell me about it?” Siora offers, when he complains about it the next morning. She’s shooed Vasco away to train with Petrus. She drapes warm, damp cloths over the poultice and slowly peels it away. She doesn’t grimace, but her expression is stony.

“Bad?”

“You should not be alive. Tell me about your dream.”

He stares at the ceiling and realizes he hasn’t seen the sky since that day. He sucks in his breath in a hiss when she prods at the stitches and she apologizes. Her magic seeps into him, numbing the wound and dulling the pain. He closes his eyes and brings back that fractured mirror in his mind. He remembers saying farewell to his mother, and Siora saying goodbye to hers. He remembers boarding a ship in Serene Harbor and looking back at a sad and dying land. He remembers setting foot on Teer Fradee for the first time and--

“I was… a tree. Caught in a storm, shaken so badly even my branches hurt.” He inhales sharply as another frisson of pain shoots through him. “Not surprising though,” he adds, but Siora’s hands have stilled. He sighs. “The sky caught fire and lightning struck, piercing me through and through.”

“Perhaps that was Catasach’s needle,” she suggests with an attempt at a smile, but her concentration has intensified. “Go on?”

He furrows his brow and tries to remember. The pain. The lightning. The fire. “The flames devoured me. I thought… I thought my life had left me.” He opens his eyes and tries to read Siora’s face, but she has turned away to find something. He’s starting to wonder if she’s avoiding looking at him. “When everything went calm, I was still able to feel. The rain began to fall on me and I felt… I felt… like the sap began to flow again. And a new shoot unfurled from the roots. I don’t know how often I dreamed it, or if it was just once over the many days and--Siora, what’s wrong?”

Her hazel eyes are wet with tears and she reaches out to touch his face. He flinches, but she rests her fingers on his mark, so much like her own. “You are no mere  _ on ol menawi _ , Alex. I don’t understand it. You are bound to this land in ways very few of my people, myself included, are.”

“How? I was born in Serene. I never  _ left _ Serene until that day! I--” A spasm cuts him off and he curls his fingers into the blanket, tries to breathe through it, sees stars when he squeezes his eyes shut. He’s never been so confused, so helpless, and that hurts as badly as the angry red wound slashing down his torso.

* * *

Forced confinement has made Alex downright surly, and Vasco seriously reconsiders his thoughts of keelhauling the man. “Do you think he’s ready?” he asks Catasach, who taps a finger against his chin for a moment before nodding. “Thank the blessed depths,” Vasco mutters. “Your wish is granted, love,” he announces to Alex. “Catasach has decided we can help you stand.”

“Finally!” Alex’s eyes brighten, and his face loses some of the bitterness it’s harbored over the last couple of days, and Vasco feels guilty again. Alex didn’t ask for this, and he’s not used to it--no more than Vasco would be able to handle being bedridden on his own ship. He shifts and his face blanches; the greyish mark stands out against his pallor and he stiffens.

“The first time I took the helm I nearly capsized, and dislocated a shoulder,” Vasco tells him. “Not my proudest moment.” He perches on the edge of the cot and rests a hand on Alex’s knee. “My point is that you need to take it slow and steady. You said you--you love me,” he says, and meets Alex’s eyes. It’s still so wild for him to consider that a man like Alex truly loves him. But Alex nods and drops his eyes to his covered lap. “Do you trust me?” he asks.

Alex’s sigh sounds defeated, before they’ve even begun. “I do. To both.”

They go slow: first getting him upright enough to wind bandaging around his torso, and then, after he’s caught his breath, helping him move his legs over the edge. Alex sits there for a time, trying to breathe slowly through his nose, exhaling in a hiss, and his face is pale. “Ready to try standing? I’ll support you,” Vasco offers. 

Alex glances down at the woven blanket over his lap and his cheeks are tinged with red. “I’ve got nothing on under this, have I.”

Vasco grins and shifts the edge of the blanket, making Alex blush more deeply. “Nothing I haven’t seen, or felt for myself, Tempest.” He gives Alex a light kiss on the cheek. “I jest. Your own clothing… well, it’s rather destroyed,” he confesses. There will be no getting the blood stains out of his shirt, and his coat was torn beyond repair. He wonders if the brass buttons are still scattered on the beach or if they went out with the tide, along with an alarming quantity of Alex’s blood.

Catasach approaches with a light, woven robe in a shade of turquoise that reminds Vasco of the sea on a sunny summer day. “You may find this more comfortable than the  _ renaigse _ style anyway. Here.” He and Vasco help Alex dress. “Give me your arm,” Catasach orders, and Alex obeys with a sigh. Whatever delight he’d had in the thought of getting up took flight when it became this production. Vasco tucks a wayward lock of hair behind his ear and rubs his thumb along Alex’s cheek.  _ Take it slow, _ he thinks. He takes Alex’s other arm.

Ever so slowly they get to their feet, with Alex dangling between them. He bites his lip in concentration and stares at the ground, at his bare feet trying to rest on the hard-packed earthen floor. The pressure on Vasco’s shoulders eases as Alex gets his footing. He takes one tiny, shuffling step forward. Then another. The effort leaves him sweating, but with each step his smile grows.

“Can I go outside?” Alex asks when they’ve made it halfway to the door. “I haven’t seen the sky in so long.” He watches the door and Vasco feels his arm tighten across his shoulders. 

“I’m sure Siora will be around to assist,” Vasco adds. He puts his other arm around Alex’s waist, lessening the burden on Catasach. “We won’t go far. Just outside the door.”

Catasach finally agrees, so long as they bring an extra blanket. “Small price to pay,” Alex tells him with a tight smile. He focuses on one foot in front of the other, leaning heavily against Vasco. By the time they make it to the door sweat beads along his forehead and his breathing comes in ragged gasps. He checks the bandaging, but no blood. 

Vasco opens the door and bright daylight spills inside the hut. It’s enough to make him squint, and he’s accustomed to such things. It’s an overcast day and a bit chilly; but Alex stands in the doorway, letting the air flow over him. He relaxes and allows Vasco to guide him to a low retaining wall just outside the door. They sit in comfortable silence, Vasco seated on the grass behind him, supporting him.

“If you tell me I have to go back inside I may get cross,” Alex warns, but he’s smiling, the first real smile in days. He trails his hands through the grass and leans back against Vasco. “Vasco, love… I  _ am _ sorry I’ve been cross with you.”

“I understand it’s been difficult.” Vasco adjusts the blanket over his lap. “I know what you mean about not having a choice in the matter. It’s a storm we’ll weather together.”

“I don’t deserve you.”

“You don’t deserve getting eviscerated on a beach,” Vasco corrects, and while he smiles, hands clasped loosely about Alex’s waist, those horrible memories of blood and bone keep coming back to haunt him. 

“You meant it when you said you loved me, right?” Alex’s voice is small and he toys with the edge of the robe. His fingers brush over the layers of bandages. “Even with… with this.”

“Alexandre De Sardet, I would love you if that thing had cut off your arm or leg. I would love you if it had taken an eye out. I do love you.” He rests his chin on Alex’s uninjured shoulder. He loves how warm Alex is against him now, how he didn’t think he’d feel that through his thin shirt ever again, so now it’s even sweeter. He loves the way Alex’s fingers intertwine with his own, the way he can feel Alex breathing, feel his heart beating against him, into him, through him. The way he’s alive. “If you can love a Naut, I can love a noble.”

“I can and I do. Thank you, for all you’re doing for me.”

Vasco has always thought himself a simple man, but the depth of emotion he feels runs deeper than the deepest sea and would stretch beyond the farthest horizon. It wells up in him and he has to fight not to hold too tightly, lest he cause more damage to Alex’s injury. “Remember our poem?” he whispers and Alex nods. “We’re out of sight of shore. This is just one of many bitter seas that I’d sail with you.”

Alex angles his head back and brushes his lips across Vasco’s. “I won’t pretend to be glad this happened,” he confesses. “But it did, and if I have to sail a bitter sea, I’m glad it’s with you at my side.”

The breeze brings the scent of rain and of the sea to them, and there is nowhere else Vasco would wish to be in this moment. 

Not even at the helm of a ship.


	27. Face to Face

_Face to Face_

From then on, the days get better. Alex has lost track of time and doesn’t care. Wenshaveye feels like the home he’s been hoping to find on this island. Perhaps it’s because this was where he returned to the world of the living, or where he finally realized what an idiot he was for not telling Vasco his feelings sooner. Perhaps he had been too afraid of being rebuffed? 

But he’s seen his own death now, and nothing is more terrifying than that and the dreams it brought. He’s sleeping better, taking daily walks about the village that don’t leave him back at death’s doorstep, and learning more about the villagers and their lives. What Theleme would call heresy, Alex sees is just a deep kinship with the earth and its creatures. He can’t even bear any ill will toward the Glendemen, which was just defending its territory.

“Captain Cezar didn’t realize what he was taking aboard, did he,” Alex says as he and Vasco overlook the wreck of the  _ Oriflamme.  _ He comes to these cliffs regularly, to stare down at the beach where the ocean has cleaned away his blood. There is no trace of his near-death.

“Cargo’s cargo,” Vasco tells him with a shrug. “His journal says the Bridge promised it would stay sedated… a day in and it was stirring. Next day it broke free and burst right through the hull to get back to its land.”

Alex remembers being trapped in his own mind, out of control of his body. He remembers the fear of waking in a strange place, in so much pain, and only the site of Vasco next to him helped. And he has the rational mind of a man. 

The song of the waves draws him out every day, and sometimes in the middle of the nights when the stars are bright overhead. Vasco never complains about being woken and understands this strange compulsion--for that’s what it is. Alex cannot fall back to sleep, nor remain still until he gets up and walks outside. The  _ Oriflamme _ is a blob of darkness in the moonlight. The song of the waves calls to him.

He tries to spend time by the nearby river instead, hoping that water will calm him, and that’s where Petrus finds him the morning before they are due to depart for New Serene. Catasach has proclaimed him fit for travel, and will attend to him on the road and for the first few days in New Serene, until any of their crow-faced doctors are deemed capable of assisting him.

“Dressed like that, you pass as a native,” Petrus says in greeting, and Alex just smiles. It hasn’t escaped him that he has little in common with his homeland and his people right now. “Praise be to the Illumined that you are well,” he adds and sits next to Alex.

The Illumined, Catasach’s magic, just plain luck… any number of things have contributed to Alex’s survival, and considering them all just makes his head hurt. “I’m surprised you stayed,” he says instead. Propriety demands he thank Petrus for his prayers, and propriety is the furthest thing from his mind right now. “Why not return to San Matheus?”

Out of armor, Petrus looks far older, more haggard, or maybe that’s just the long weeks spent pacing the outskirts of Wenshaveye. “I was concerned for your health. I feared that…” He pauses, searching for words somewhere out beyond the river. “I wished to have a good report to share with the Mother Cardinal, and to not have to bring my sympathies to New Serene.” His smile is stiff, his gaze far away, his words hollow.

“It wouldn’t have been your fault, Petrus.”

“Our people consider them demons.” Petrus finally looks at him, his eyes falling on the edges of bandages peeking out from Alex’s native-style clothing. “What would you say?”

Alex’s memories of the Glendemen are fuzzy at best. “Siora called it a Guardian. I think it was defending its territory. It didn’t know we meant it no harm, we didn’t know it was there. It was all a terrible accident.” 

Petrus’s internal war between his duty to Theleme and the Light, and wanting to believe Alex, is written all over his face. “Then I am glad all’s well that ends well,” he says simply.

“Bishop Petrus.” The older man looks up. “Nearly dying has lessened some of my inhibitions, and my patience for propriety,” Alex states, and Petrus does smile at that. 

“Spoken like a true diplomat, Excellency.”

Again with that title. There is nothing excellent about him, because in the end he’s just another man who is capable of dying just like anyone else. “I feel that you haven’t been entirely forthright with what you know of me.” 

The Bishop does not answer immediately, confirming Alex’s suspicions. For once the twinge in his belly isn’t pain from his wound, but anxiety over what Petrus knows, and what he refuses to share with anyone. Between Siora’s assertions that he  _ must _ be bound to Teer Fradee, and Petrus’s strange comments and stranger secrecy, he’s growing tired of everyone knowing more about him than he knows about himself…

...Which has to be how Vasco felt his whole life. Vasco showed him the tattoos that meant Sea-Given, told him the story of getting them as a child. He would have spent the better part of two decades fully aware that he was someone else, that his admirals knew it and hid it from him. Vasco’s careful patience is a virtue that Alex should learn from, but when he thinks of going to his grave without ever knowing what hides behind Petrus’s eyes, without knowing what it means to be bound to the island he’s only just set foot on these last couple of months… It makes him ornery.

“I did not know your father.” Petrus lets out a sigh, inhales again with a hitching shake. “I-- May the Light guide me!” He scrambles from the riverbank and leaps to his feet, casting a shield over himself and Alex. “The demon!”

Alex can’t move as quickly as he’d like; he’s stiff, the long line of stitches hot and itchy and tender even with the bandaging and magic and medicine holding him together. He stares across the river to the sight of the hulking Glendemen lumbering up the hill. Its arms hang at its side, its tentacles relax against its chest. 

He should be terrified; but while his heart does hammer in his chest, it is not with fear. Not for himself, at least. Alex clambers to his feet and touches Petrus’s arm. The shield dissolves, and he shakes his head when Petrus begins to protest. 

The river is cold when he wades in up to his knees and sloshes across to the opposite bank. The Glendemen pauses, cocks its head to the side, and then approaches. Alex doesn’t look back, can’t look at Petrus now, or at anyone that he hears shouting from the other side. Each step he takes becomes stronger. Somewhere inside of him is the certainty that this creature won’t hurt him, so he walks toward it, allows it to approach him, and then they stand face to face in the waving grasses with the river singing over rocks behind Alex, and the salty sea breeze wafting up from behind the Glendemen.

The Glendemen towers over him by about a head and a half, and he cranes his neck to look up. It tilts its head down so they can stare eye to eye, and in that big, dark orb he reads sorrow and fear and the fierce pride. He holds his hand up, and the Glendemen sets one tentacle in his palm, all while staring into his own eyes.

Everything is brighter and sharper and for a moment Alex can see the very currents of being that make up and link everything of Teer Fradee: flowing from the ocean to the sands, to the rocks and into the hills and grasses, twining up into and through the Glendemen, and he can see it flowing not into his own hands, but  _ out of _ them and into the world. He is bound to this creature through his bond to the land, and through the shedding of his blood.

In that moment he understands the cycle. That for everything taken, something must be returned and balance must be maintained. That the Glendemen, and other Guardians like it, are tasked with preserving the balance, and Alex must also take his part in this. All other promises, even finding the cure for the Malichor, are nothing compared to this.

_ Tir Fradi’s blood has been shed and not restored for many years now. You have spilled your blood for Tir Fradi _ .  _ See it is not spilled in vain _ .

The voice is deep in his mind, so deep he feels it rather than hears it, and the whole time, the Glendemen has locked its eyes with his, and the tentacles wind around him so, so gently, and people are screaming from the other side of the river and then…

And then the pain is minimal. He can stand straighter, get a deep breath without wanting to keel over. He’s a bit stiff and sore, but he doesn’t feel awful. He feels almost normal. The Glendemen releases him, turns its back, and shuffles away over the hills and back to the shore, where it will guard the grave of the  _ Oriflamme _ . This is what is right. This is balance.

He takes in a deep breath of sea-scented air and turns around to see Petrus, Vasco, Siora, and most of Wenshaveye’s population watching him in shocked silence.

Alex crosses the river once more and stops before Petrus. “When you return to San Matheus, you may tell the Mother Cardinal that there are no demons here.”

Petrus’s eyes are glassy, his skin pale, and his hands tremble. “What… what then are they?”

“Guardians.”

There is much he still does not understand, but the desperation and frustration over it is gone. With his sudden healing, he feels his old determination and curiosity kicking in again, and now, more than ever, Alex is determined to ferret out the answers to his questions. And this time he knows he will have Siora and Vasco, his beloved Vasco, to help.

So much is now uncertain, but one thing he knows without doubt: Alexandre De Sardet is not who he thinks he is… or who he has been led to believe he is.


	28. Thicker Than Water

_Thicker Than Water_

The huts of Wenshaveye were built with the roll of the land. Pathways ambled between buildings with no hurry, and most huts looked the same. Even Catasach’s dwelling was difficult to distinguish from any others, but for the ever-burning lamp he hung out to mark his as a place of healing. After weeks in that unhurried seaside village, Alex finds the press of buildings in New Serene to be uncomfortable. The eyes of the people--his people--watch with blends of curiosity and contempt as they walk into town, having left the traveling wagon at the post just outside of the city.

“Greenblood!” Kurt’s voice rings out over the sounds of the city, louder and stronger even than the blacksmith’s constant hammering. He pushes through the crowd and stops short. “Where the hell have you been?” He takes in Alex’s new companion, and the way he’s dressed, the way his hair has grown into an unruly pile of loose curls. “Constantin’s been worried sick. That business with the Naut ship shouldn’t have taken more than a morning’s worth of work.”

“There were complications,” Alex states. “I’ll show you when we’re in quieter quarters.”

“Well, that’s going to have to wait until after you see your cousin. He’s… well, see for yourself,” Kurt says grimly. 

They make their way through the streets toward Orsay Square. The sun, which had been so bright on the road, is blocked by the multi-story buildings the Merchant Congregation has built up. He draws strange stares: with his birthmark and his mode of dress, accompanied by Catasach and Siora, he looks nothing like their proper, groomed Legate.

“What’s wrong with Constantin?” Alex asks Kurt once they’re inside the palace. 

“Want to tell me why you were gone for weeks without notifying anyone?”

“Nice to see you concerned for my well-being,” Alex tells him. He fiddles with the ties of the robe and pulls it open. Catasach removed the stitches, and it’s closed up quite well since his encounter with his Guardian. But it’s still an angry, raised red slash, and he lets Kurt take in the full extent of the damage. “I was laid up for a bit. Siora and Catasach healed me. Catasach’s village took me in while I was convalescing.”

“If that’s how you look now, I’d hate to see the other guy,” Kurt says with a low whistle. 

“It’s a very long, very strange story. I don’t know quite what to make of it myself just yet.” Nor does he know what to make of the lengthy lists of diplomatic errands he’ll have to start running again: deals to broker, alliances to iron out, letters to write. And all he wants is to understand more about Teer Fradee, about his link to the place, about what needs to be done to regain and maintain the balance that he is part of. Everything else? The silly squabbles of the Bridge and Theleme? It all feels petty and unimportant.

He follows Kurt through the staid and silent halls of the Governor’s Palace: too big, too quiet, too unbalanced. He tries to feel the currents of being again, but without the direct touch of his Guardian, he can’t quite access that level of being.

Constantin slumps back against his throne, coat open, cravate tossed on the floor, shirt collar unbuttoned. His hair is mussed up and his face is ghastly pale and shadowed. Alex clears his throat and his cousin looks up with bleary eyes. “Alexandre? Is that… no. It can’t be you.” He coughs and straightens up. He leans forward and Alex’s heart stops for a moment: the shadows aren’t just shadows in the hollows of his cheeks and eye sockets. Dark lines like leafless tree branches stand out just under his translucent skin. “You look like one of them. In a way you barely resembled before.” He laughs, a harsh bark. “Who are you and what have you done with my cousin?”

“Cousin, it’s me. I had a little accident.” Best keep it minimal for now. “My regular clothes were rather destroyed.” He shrugs, pastes a hapless grin on his face. “And before you ask, the sea captain had nothing to do with it,” he adds with a conspiratorial wink. He’s forgotten how Constantin needs to be placated, reassured. He’d be annoyed if not for the tell-tale signs of illness written on his face, telling his future the way the Nauts’ tattoos tell their past. “And what of your health?” he asks carefully.

His cousin’s lips twitch, half smile, half grimace. “You mean I don’t look the picture of health?” His attempt to feign surprise is uncomfortable.

“I knew you were often tired when I returned from missions.” His skill with words returns easily, for which Alex is quite grateful. 

“You managed to return just in time. I couldn’t wait. I brought in one of those  _ crows _ ,” he says and the word drips with disdain. “He drew my blood. The results are due any moment.”

“Then it is well I returned when I did.” Alex approaches and sits on the dais. Constantin slides out of his seat to join him on the red carpet. “I’d have returned sooner if I could. I was injured and the recovery took longer than anticipated.”

“Injured? You, who could deflect every strike with your barriers, and stun your opponents into submission?” Constantin raises an eyebrow.

“The opponent was… not one I was familiar with.” He peels back the robe again and lets Constantin view the angry scar. “From all accounts I’m beyond lucky to have survived.”

“I am glad you’ve returned. Please don’t mistake my melancholy for displeasure.” Constantin pats his knee. “I was jealous of you, gallivanting across the island and solving Naut mysteries, bringing down secret sects of the Coin Guard… and me, here alone in the palace with little to do. I wish I could have been there with you, Cousin.”

Alex just nods and smiles. Would it have made a difference in his cousin’s health to have been outside of the palace? Where even would he contract such an illness? He’d been hale when they left Serene; how can he be so ill now after months at sea, and months on the island?

Constantin doesn’t move his hand and Alex swears he can feel the illness there, below his skin, just at his fingertips. Perhaps he’s being dramatic, perhaps his encounter with the Glendemen has given him a different sense of things. But when the doctor emerges moments later with the vial of Constantin’s blackened blood, Alex remains calm.  _ Did you not look in a mirror?  _ He wants to shout. But he just holds Constantin to him, rocking him like a child while he sobs.

“I’m going to die,” Constantin gasps and scrambles back away from Alex. His breathing hitches in his throat, caught on sobs he can’t get out. “I’m--you said you would find a cure!” He stares at Alex, accusation in his teary blue eyes, but it doesn’t completely cover the fear.

“And I will.” Alex meets his gaze. “I’ve not given up, and if I could have avoided this setback, I would have.”  _ Oh believe me, I would have, _ he thinks. “Even in spite of this, good fortune smiles on us. Catasach, the talented healer who saved my life, has come back to New Serene with me.” He keeps his voice calm. Manages a smile. “I can ask if he’d see to you as well.”

They both know what’s to come: the creeping corruption of the blood, the pain that starts as an ache and steadily becomes stabbing and burning, wracking the whole body with spasms that make the victim wish for death, if only because that means the pain will stop. The blindness, the lesions and sores… All of this awaits the move vivacious person Alex has ever known. “I  _ will _ ask if he’ll see to you,” he promises. “And then I’ll track down a cure if it kills me.”

A smile flickers across Constantin’s features. “It nearly did once already. Be careful what you promise, dear Cousin.”

* * *

Vasco’s fine, fair hair is loose about his face and shoulders and the lamplight shines off of him like a halo. His white linen shirt is open at the collar, laces loose, and the precise lines of his tattoos are visible along his collarbones, and the hollow where those bones join, and then they disappear beneath the line of his shirt. He’s pushed his sleeves up and leans over the desk. Cezar’s badly warped journal is set to his right, and the quill dances along the paper as he writes up his report of the  _ Oriflamme _ incident. He dips the quill and looks up to find Alex watching him. 

“I didn’t know you were left-handed.” Alex watches this absolute vision of Vasco, just sitting at the desk in his home: comfortable, relaxed, as if he belongs there. Alex leans against the door frame.

“I still have my secrets, Tempest. I’m nearly done with this.” He finishes his report, seemingly heedless of Alex watching him; then again, there’s only so much privacy he can expect on board his ship, so he’s accustomed to an audience. He adds a final flourish: his signature? And replaces the cap of the inkwell. “I plan to return this to the Admiral tomorrow, with Cezar’s journal.”

“Did you tell her about…” Alex looks down at his bare chest.

“Yes. I spared the most gruesome details, but it may help her to understand why we were so delayed on what should have been a simple in and out mission.”

Vasco still smiles, still stares at him with luminous sea-grey eyes that look almost golden in this light. He leans back and fixes Alex with a stare that holds more than Alex can fathom. He looks away and wishes he put on a robe after his bath. “What happens when a Naut completes their loyalty mission?”

Vasco rests one ankle on the opposite knee and folds his hands before him. “Usually they’ll get a new tattoo, a prominent one, showing what they’ve accomplished. It’ll be somewhere obvious, so everyone can see, and no Naut can possibly doubt them ever again.” The fierce pride in his voice is edged with anticipation, as if he hopes he’ll be graced by the tattooist’s needle. “And after that, it could be anything from restrictions lifted, to a promotion.”

“Cabral could give you permission to sail again.” Alex swallows the sudden bitterness.

“That she could, but permission to sail isn’t an order to return to the sea.” Vasco pushes himself out of the chair and crosses to Alex. He rests his hands on his hips and brushes a wayward auburn curl away from his face. “I’m forever a Naut, but I’m also forever yours, and I will find a way to reconcile those.” He brushes his lips over Alex’s. “I’d never leave you, especially when you have so much to consider now with Constantin.” He leads Alex over to the bed, to  _ their _ bed, and pulls him close against the bolsters. He’s barefoot. Alex notices that his toes are not tattooed.

“Thank you, Vasco. You’re good to me.”

“You were with me in my darkest hour--what led to me being confined to shore to begin with. I’ll not return that by leaving you in yours.” He looks down at Alex, cards his fingers through Alex’s hair. “I like your hair longer like this. I can only imagine how it would look with the sea breeze running through it.”

“Yes, finding a barber in Wenshaveye was not necessarily a priority of mine.” Alex smiles, feeling warm and safe curled next to Vasco. “I’ll stand with you no matter what.”

“Even if it goes against your duties to the Congregation?” Vasco’s fingers brush over his cheek, over his mark. “I only ask because you have a position of privilege and power; you can say these things, but do you know what it could mean?”

Alex rests his head against Vasco’s chest and listens to his heartbeat: strong and steady and endless as the in and out of the tides. When he closes his eyes, he sees Petrus’s face. He tells Vasco what’s been transpiring between himself and the older man, and the full details of what happened when he touched the Glendemen. “So you see… perhaps my duty isn’t what I think it is. Or what anyone thinks it is. Perhaps… I’m not who I thought I was.” He licks his lips and cranes his neck to look at Vasco. The angle distorts the tattoo lines. “If that were the case, would you still love me?”

Vasco’s sigh ruffles his hair. “Alexandre De Sar--”

“If I wasn’t Alexandre De Sardet.” He curls his fingers into Vasco’s shirt, crushing the linen under his fingertips. Was this the shirt Vasco loaned him so long ago, when Alex thought his feelings for the Captain were just fleeting flirtation? 

“Alex.” Vasco gently turns him so they can see eye to eye. “I would use the power vested in me, as a Naut Captain, to perform my own marriage to you on board a ship. Your title means nothing to me.” He pulls him into a soft kiss.

Today was not the triumphant return Alex had hoped for. Already he’s back to compartmentalizing, making lists. Tomorrow he’ll need to meet with Mr. de Courcillon; he’ll go with Vasco to see Admiral Cabral. He’ll arrange for Catasach to help with Constantin’s care, and will start finding a cure in earnest. But tonight it’s just him and Vasco in the low firelight, so close their hearts beat together.


	29. Truth Will Out

_Truth Will Out_

The armoire is filled with pristine white shirts and crisp, folded trousers, and a new pair of brown leather boots have been shined up and are set at strict attention next to it. Alex trails his fingers over the fabrics as if feeling them for the first time. Morning light catches the bright brass buttons of his spare blue coat, and the silver and gold embroidery shimmers. His damp hair curls away from the back of his neck and he’s shaved. He absently rubs at his scar, but the itch is deep within it and unreachable.

Mr de Courcillon sent an urgent message yesterday, so Alex heads to the palace before Vasco’s afternoon appointment with Admiral Cabral. Vasco’s comment about marriage still rings through his head and fills his belly with flutters that are at once giddy and terrifying--terrifying because he wants it so badly, more than he even wanted to be the Legate to Teer Fradee.

Coat buttoned, cravate tied, hat--complete with ridiculous jaunty feather--atop his tousled curls, there is no trace of the Alex that existed for those weeks in Wenshaveye. This Alex feels stiff and false, like a puppet fighting its strings. He climbs the steps to the palace. Guards let him in and he nods a polite hello. The halls are empty and silent but for his footsteps; the place is a tomb of marble and a monument to decadence. Decadence they haven’t even earned. 

“Come in,” his old tutor calls when Alex raps sharply on the door. “Alexandre. Thank you for coming.” He smiles and rises from his desk. “I am so pleased to see you well. The story of what happened in Wenshaveye sounds…” The older man is rarely at a loss for words.

“Yes, I do believe it will go down as the worst experience of my whole life,” Alex says to save him. “I trust you are aware of Constantin’s condition?”

De Courcillon nods solemnly. He tutored them both and taught them how to navigate the court. Everything Alex knows about Merchant Congregation history, he learned from this man, and this man watched Alex and his cousin grow up to be two very powerful men. And in the span of just a few weeks, he nearly lost them both. “I know you’ve made it a personal mission to find a cure in your time here. Have you discovered anything yet?”

Alex takes a seat and unbuttons his coat. It’s stifling in this study, though outside autumn comes in earnest. “Theleme believes that it’s a curse, brought down upon us by the native islanders invoking demons.”

“What you do you believe?”

“That Theleme is wrong. What they think to be demons are just guardians of this island. That’s what attacked me. So long as we don’t bother them, they leave us alone. As far as the Bridge goes, they’re too mired in their  _ research _ to have gotten far with anything.” He fiddles with the feather of the hat in his lap. “I don’t know what to do with this.”

“And I’m afraid I bring you more questions.” De Courcillon offers a rueful smile. “All this talk of questions and answers. I had some scouts on a scholarly expedition to some ruins. They brought some artifacts back that indicate that…” He glances around, worried, and drops his voice. “The Congregation may have been here before. In the far distant past, of course.”

Alex cocks his head to the side. “You mean you’re not entirely sure? Sir De Courcillon, I thought you knew everything,” he says, half joking. The nerves are curling inside of him again, like tendrils of smoke. 

“I know everything I can with the information I’ve had access to.” He folds his hands atop his desk. “This is new information.”

“What do you want me to do with it?”

“The Nauts keep meticulous records of everything. I thought that, as you have some… influence with them… you could start by asking what they may know about all of this.”

Just because he’s sleeping with a Naut captain doesn’t mean he has any influence within the Nauts; but he doesn’t say this. He just smiles and nods, and accepts the weathered chest of documents that De Courcillon hands him. “I’ll look it over. It happens that Captain Vasco and I have a meeting with Admiral Cabral later today to discuss his findings from Wenshaveye.”

Part of Alex wants to stop in and see to Constantin, and part of him knows that he can’t cope with that just now. He’s not in a space to take on Constantin’s pain, and it makes him feel guilty because he had Vasco in his darkest time, and Constantin has no one but Alex. They’re close as brothers, and weathered growing up at the center of Serene politics. 

But that chest of documents is heavy under his arm and presses up against his sore ribs. And the thought of all that new and secret knowledge presses into his mind, oozing through his sense of reason and emotion and he slips out of the palace and back to his home. He uses a spell to lock the door behind him, a spell keyed only to himself and Vasco, so no one else can come unannounced. 

Vasco is out, so Alex settles at his desk and opens the chest with shaking hands. There are some sketches of the ruins that the scouts did, and one is noted as  _ ancient coat of arms _ . The design has changed over the centuries, but it’s clearly an early Merchant Congregation design. There’s another leather-bound journal, similar to Cezar’s; but this one is stiff and cracking and the pages are brittle beneath his fingers. He turns the pages carefully, squinting at them. On many, the ink is faded beyond recognition. He pulls out his own leather journal and scribbles down his own notes of what he can find.

That’s how Vasco finds him an hour later, furiously scrawling in his journal and poring over the fragile, ancient book. “Already back to work, Tempest?” He sits across from Alex and leans over the desk to see what he’s working on.

“I don’t know that I ever stopped.” Alex closes his book and reaches across the desk; Vasco rests his hand in Alex’s. “As it happens, I have some questions of my own for the Admiral.”

“Then let’s not keep her waiting.”

* * *

Admiral Cabral reads through Vasco’s report, all the while keeping one hand on the bloated journal. At last she shakes her head and looks up. “Well. I think I’ll be speaking with the other admirals about revisiting our position on live cargo. Excellent work, Captain Vasco. And your Excellency, you are doing better I hope?”

Alex looks back to her and nods. “Yes, thank you. I’m sure we could have had this study to you sooner had it not been for me.”

“Had you not been there, that thing would have taken all of us out, and no one would ever know what happened to the  _ Oriflamme _ ,” Vasco says. “Not that I’m glad you were injured,” he adds with a cheeky wink. He knows of Alex’s connection to the Glendemen, to the island, and strange as it is, has taken it in stride. 

“I am glad to hear all ended well for you, and we finally have an answer about the  _ Oriflamme _ . Perhaps this will put the rumors to rest. Captain Vasco.”

Her tone cuts through the room and Vasco rises to stand at strict attention. His body is all one long, lean line, all perfect angles accentuated by his many tattoos. Cabral stands as well. “You have done a great service to the Nauts. Because of your work, our reputation will be restored, and we’ll be able to enact safer cargo hauling protocols. This deserves to be part of your story.”

In spite of her serious expression, her eyes glint with pride; Vasco remains at attention, but Alex can see the tiny tremor at the corner of his mouth as he fights back a smile. “I’ll alert the tattooist. You may return tomorrow to receive your new ink.”

“Thank you, Admiral.”

She waves her hand. “Alright, we’ve had enough of the formalities. At ease, Captain Vasco. Have a seat, and for the love of the four winds, crack a damned smile!”

That is an order Vasco has no trouble obeying. His grin is huge, and his eyes shine with glee. Alex’s heart swells, he wants to pull Vasco to him right then and there, but Cabral turns her lightning focus on him. “And now for your questions, Excellency?”

Alex pulls his own notes and the brittle book from his coat and sets it down. “The Nauts keep better records than anyone,” he begins, and Cabral appears pleased. “Which is why I was hoping you might have some ideas on all of this.” He hands her his notes. Cabral reads for a long time, and then it becomes clear that she’s using reading as a ruse. Alex can read her thinking, can tell she wants to say something. “You know something.”

At last she lays the paper down. Her gaze takes him in: the unruly auburn hair, the grey-brown birthmark, his hazel-green eyes. “I had hoped I was wrong when I first saw you, but Captain Vasco’s story about your encounter on the shore has confirmed everything. Captain, I’d like a private word with the Legate?”

“He can stay. In case you’d not noticed, we’re rather close,” Alex points out, and she does offer a half smile at that.

“Aye, that I had, and I think you’ll find you’re actually even closer.”

Cabral spins in her chair and takes a thick book from her shelves. She places it in the center of her desk. “Some day you may wish to read this. It’s the history of the discovery of the island.”

“Fifteen years ago,” Alex confirms.

“No. Two centuries ago.”

His middle goes cold. Cabral shares the story about the first discovery, and about the beasts that crushed those first attempts at colonization. And about how ‘no’ wasn’t enough for the Congregation, who kept trying to establish a foothold on the island in the decades after that first failure. “We should have forbidden further trips to the island but…”

“The coin was too good,” Vasco offers. He clutches the arms of his chair and his expression is stormy as the sky. “Just like what’s happened with the  _ Oriflamme _ .”

Alex rests a hand atop Vasco’s; part of him hopes Vasco won’t undo the strides he’s just made with his candid observation. 

“Aye. The coin was too good. None of the trips were particularly successful at getting something set up, but they still made trips to try. And...:” She stares at Alex meaningfully and suddenly he knows that everything he’s suspected is truth, and everything he’s known has been a lie. “You are a product of one such voyage.” Her usually sure voice is small, and she breaks eye contact. “Their last voyage was ten years before the Bridge finally managed to settle.”

“So twenty-five years ago,” Vasco murmurs. He looks over at Alex, who has gone still as a stone, as heavy and cold and solid as one. 

“You were born on one of our ships. To a native mother,” Cabral confesses.

His overprotective mother. His doting uncle the Prince, and the Prince’s insistence that Alex rise to this role and come to the island. Sending Constantin to govern, knowing… knowing Alex would  _ never _ agree to leave his cousin behind. The mark on his face that marks him as different from other  _ renaigse, _ or  _ lugeid blau, _ as others of Siora’s people have called him. Bound to the land even before his birth.

His birth on a ship.

He is truly  _ on ol menawi. _ He’s also Sea-Born.

He’s not surprised by any of this, but seeing the sadness and shame in the proud admiral’s eyes overwhelms him with nausea and dizziness. His chest tightens and he thinks of Constantin, stricken with the Malichor and depending on his only family, who is not, in fact, his family. His cravate is too tight, and he’s choking in the cramped heat of Cabral’s office. He breaks eye contact with her and stumbles out and onto the pier and runs until wooden planks become rocky jetty, runs until he passes the lighthouse, runs until the ocean stops him. 

Alex collapses and curls up, letting the cold rock seep through his clothes and skin, cooling his burning cheeks, and he feels it then: the buzz of the land beneath him, within him. This was always part of him, even when he didn’t know it. He opens his eyes and stares out at the cold grey-green sea, which has also been part of him forever. 

The truth is out now, and he’s not sure if he should laugh or cry.

He does both. He’s still laugh-crying, giving the seagulls a run for their money when it comes to funny sounds, when Vasco finds him. Vasco says nothing: just sits and pulls Alex close to him, resting his head in his lap and staring out at the endlessness of the ocean.

Alex finally sits up and sniffles, wiping his puffy red eyes. He opens his mouth to speak but Vasco shakes his head. “Salt water is good for what ails you,” he says, wiping a tear away with the pad of his thumb.


	30. Pawns

_Pawns_

He never cared for the wall paneling: it’s too dark and makes the room feel smaller than it already is. Everything about this place is meant to make it look like Serene. There’s nothing new about it. Alex stares at that paneling all through the night with Vasco curled behind him, holding him close. He couldn’t escape if he wanted it. It’s a good thing he doesn’t want to. 

It’s not enough that he’s not who he thought he was: now he has ties to two very different factions, and no blood tie to the one in which he was raised. He can’t abandon the Congregation now, when Constantin grows more ill by the hour; but he can’t ignore that his lifeblood runs through these lands, and his very heart yearns for the sea. He clasps Vasco’s hand, and Vasco grunts softly and nuzzles into the back of his neck. 

Marriage came up occasionally at court; his mother--who he thought was his mother--she made passing remarks about the girls watching him at soirees and giggling over tea. She always smiled and patted his shoulder, but never pressed it. All those years he thought maybe she just accepted his preference for men, and her comments about marriage were perfunctory: done because polite Serene society compelled she mention marriage to her son. Maybe it wasn’t about that at all; maybe she just knew he was destined to come here.

_ So you’re off to that island everyone’s talking about _ , she’d said on their last day together.

She knew he’d be coming home.

He’s still staring at the walls when the first hints of dawn streak the sky and Vasco stirs against him. “You sleep at all, Tempest?”

“No.”

Vasco runs his fingers through Alex’s hair and kisses his shoulder. “Yesterday’s blow was tough?”

“I’d take another gutting from a Glendemen, to be honest.” He turns over and snuggles against Vasco, feeling his warmth and just how solid and real he is. Vasco has been the one constant this whole time. “I think I understand how you felt when Cabral ordered you to stay ashore.”

“How so?”

“Like… like I don’t have a place. Like everything that made me who and what I was is now out of reach.”

“That’s an apt description.” Vasco lays on his back and pulls Alex closer so he can rest his head on his chest. “Though… have you given thought to what Cabral’s words mean for us?”

Cabral. There’s something else he’ll need to deal with. She knew exactly who he was the moment she saw him, and only said something when there was no way to cover her story anymore. But he remembers her shame and guilt and maybe she was a pawn in this whole game as well. “Does it bother you?” he asks instead of answer. “You’ve always been a bit put off about the whole Sea-Born versus Sea-Given thing.”

Vasco’s sigh ruffles his hair. “That used to bother me; but Nauts promote on merit, not on how you came into the fold. If that did truly matter, there’d be no real difference between us and the nobility. I think it’s just some  _ thing _ some Sea-Born got into his fool head once and started a feud we needn’t have had. No, my Alex, my Tempest, it doesn’t bother me. So long as it doesn’t bother  _ you  _ that I’ll always outrank you,” he adds.

Alex chuckles, and it feels good to laugh, and it feels good to feel Vasco’s rumbling laughter underneath him. “I’ve had enough of being in charge.”

They lay there like that in the growing daylight, Vasco absently caressing his hair, Alex tracing the tattoos along his chest with his eyes. “How does it feel?” he asks suddenly.

Vasco’s hand pauses. “Some would say it hurts… You’re getting an ink-dipped needle jabbed into your skin over and over after all.” He chuckles when Alex winces. “Some say it’s addictive. They’ll work their arses off just to get another marking. Me? Yeah, it stings a bit, but I’m used to it. And when else am I going to get to sit still for a couple hours?” He plants a kiss atop Alex’s head. 

The ink is indelibly etched into Vasco: his history made visible for all to see. “Have you been thinking about some ink of your own?” Vasco asks.

After the Glendemen attack, pain isn’t a barrier to anything. Alex feels he could survive anything that comes his way. Tiny ink-tipped needles jabbing into his face shouldn’t be any issue. But it’s not the pain that deters him. It’s what it means. He’s been marked his whole life. But he doesn’t know the native language: can’t let it roll off his tongue without his affected, cultured accent getting in the way of the syllables that ripple like water over rocks. He doesn’t know the customs. He can understand them, can feel it within his bones, but isn’t sure that he truly believes all of it. He’s marked as an  _ on ol menawi _ , but his ways are that of the  _ renaigse _ .

And what  _ will _ polite Congregation society think when they realize he’s not truly one of them? That he’s just been a useful pawn in the Prince’s game? Only his ‘relation’ to the Prince has spared him the worst of their gossip.

But the Nauts sail everywhere, promote on merit, and take anyone willing to give up their name and their life to the sea. “Do you think the Admiral would allow that?” he asks.

“Don’t see why not. She knew you were Sea-Born. It’s your birthright if you want to claim it.”

Alex stretches and sits up, the blanket falling away from his bare torso. The raised red scar slashes across him, also marking him, and he sighs. He’ll never get used to that, and the way he tingles uncomfortably upon seeing it. “I need to see Constantin and Catasach today. I can meet you at the tattooist later.”

“To get your own ink?” Vasco asks hopefully. He grins, watching Alex from the bed, propped up on his elbows. His hair is loose and disheveled and the morning light makes his skin appear translucent. 

It takes everything in Alex not to jump back in bed and ravish him. He just smiles and goes about selecting his clothing for the day. “No. To hold your hand when it hurts.” He ducks away from a tossed pillow, and hears Vasco laughing as he descends the stairs.

* * *

Petrus is not available when Alex stops by the Theleme embassy, so he gives in and climbs the steps to the palace. He’d hoped to put off this visit to his cous--no, to Constantin--no, Constantin has been close as a brother, and will remain so regardless of their blood relation or lack thereof. Wan sunlight breaks through the clouds and Alex squints. The interior of the palace isn’t much better, all green from his sun-blindness. He nods terse hellos to the guards stationed in the main hall, and just outside Constantin’s audience chamber. He swallows his guilt and lets himself in.

Constantin sits on a pile of cushions before the huge window overlooking New Serene. “This was supposed to be my city,” he says upon hearing Alex’s footsteps.

“It still is.” He passes the guards in the back of the room and joins Constantin on the floor. 

Constantin huffs and hugs his knees to his chest, making him look younger, smaller, especially when he rests his chin on his knees. “Did you know there are absolutely zero interesting parties here? All of the most interesting people here range from being the most mediocre to the least desirable from back home. Kind of makes you wonder what my father was thinking.” He glares out the window at the statue of his father, and a knot tightens in Alex’s gut. He knew exactly what the Prince was thinking.

“Perhaps when you’re well again, you can start a new trend of throwing interesting parties,” Alex ventures.

Constantin’s glare is absolutely baleful and his tone holds a rage Alex has only ever heard directed at the Prince. “Lovely how you think that’s a possibility,” he snaps. “You had one mission. Find a cure.”

“I had several missions,” Alex snaps back. “Everywhere I go all people see is Constantin’s errand boy. Do you think I  _ wanted  _ to return without a cure? Do you--”

“You certainly found the time to assist the captain.”

“Fuck off, Constantin.” His cousin stares at him, eyes wide with shock, and Alex stares back before sighing. “I’m sorry. I know you’re having--”

“Leave us.” Kurt’s clipped voice echoes through the chamber, and Alex spins around to see the retinue of guards watching their captain curiously. 

“Sir?” one begins, but Kurt holds up his hand.

“That’s an  _ order _ , soldier.” Kurt watches the guards trail out, and then bars the door behind them. “Constantin. Alex. Come quick,” he orders. He can’t wait for Constantin though, and strides over to haul him up by the arm. Constantin whimpers in pain and Kurt is torn between looking apologetic and impatient. “There’s no time. We need to get you to the safe room downstairs.”

“Safe room? What’s happening?” Alex’s heart races, and the expression on Kurt’s face sends tendrils of fear through him.

“The Coin Guard are attempting a coup all over the island.” Kurt checks the back stairwell and ushers them over. “Funny how putting your trust in a bunch of mercenaries can backfire.”

“Then why are you helping us?” Alex asks. Kurt doesn’t answer, and he touches his friend’s arm. “Kurt…”

“Maybe I’m sick of being a game piece of the Commander’s. Maybe I’m tired of being disappointed by the Guard not living up to my expectations. And maybe, just maybe I’m rather fond of you two,” he finishes with a grim smile. “And if you tell anyone, you’ll regret it,” he adds, but he’s still smiling. “Get downstairs. I’ll warn Lady Morange and Mr. De Courcillon, and see about getting couriers out to Hikmet and San Matheus.”

Alex is halfway down the stairs when he suddenly turns, his heart tearing at the strings. “Vasco--”

“Is holding back when he fights you,” Kurt said with a grin. “I have a feeling he’ll have some fun this afternoon.”

The safe room entrance is hidden behind a stack of wine casks in the cellar, and Alex lights the tiny lamp before pulling the thick metal door closed and adding his own magic to keep it secure. Once inside, the silence roars around them, or maybe that’s the blood pounding in his veins. 

“I should not have been cross with you earlier.” He leans against the cool stone wall. Constantin has claimed the narrow bed in the corner, and he curls under the blanket. “I am trying, I do want…” He makes a fist and hits the wall: not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to feel something, anything, other than the chaos inside.

“I’m scared, Alex.” Constantin huddles into the corner, blankets pulled tight around him. “You’re all I have. And for a long time, I was all you had, what with your mother’s illness.” Mention of Lady De Sardet sends a knife twisting in Alex’s middle. “When we arrived here and you began getting on with Captain Vasco so well...I suppose I got jealous. I suppose I thought I was losing you.”

“You nearly did.” Alex sheds his coat and undoes the buttons of his shirt. He lets his shirt fall open. “I wanted the trip to Wenshaveye to go quickly. I didn’t expect this to happen.” He lets Constantin ogle the scar for a time, and then joins him on the bed. “I understand fear.”

But Constantin is not convinced. He coughs and squeezes his eyes shut until the wave of pain passes. “What’s it like? To have everyone just fall in love with you everywhere you go.” Alex wants to protest, but to a degree, Constantin is right. Even in spite of his strange appearance at court, he was still well-liked, and found it easy to make conversation. Even on board the  _ Seahorse _ he could hold his own with the crew. “It’s a job, Constantin,” he says instead. “That’s all it’s ever been. I’ve been trained, same as you, to do what needs to be done in the name of the Congregation.”

“It’s different--”

“My life is a fucking  _ lie _ , Constantin.” He stares at his cousin and feels himself shaking. He tenses his whole body to stop it and just feels like a shaken beer bottle, ready to pop his cork. “My  _ mother _ was a native, taken from these shores a decade before Hikmet was settled. I was born on a  _ ship _ . Your father raised me to be useful when the Congregation finally decided to settle here again, after the Bridge and Theleme had done the difficult work.” His breath comes in shallow gasps. 

Constantin blinks wide owlish eyes. He stares at the mark on Alex’s face. “You… you promised your mother…”

“She was never my mother.” How much did the Prince pay her to raise him? Why was she willing to take in an orphan… was he even an orphan? Did his real mother die during his birth? Did she even make it to Serene? 

“You promised me.” Constantin’s voice is softer. “My father isn’t here now. It doesn’t matter why he sent us both, does it?” He seems to understand: Lady Morange was a fine governor, and Alex would have gotten on well with her. Alex never would have left his cousin behind. “Perhaps New Serene, maybe even all of Teer Fradee, is ours.”

He shakes his head. “Teer Fradee must belong to itself. Don’t ask me how I know this. You’d never believe me.” Constantin rests his hand on Alex’s, and there’s a cold darkness there: corruption and pain eating him from the inside out. Alex stiffens, but doesn’t let Constantin know what he feels. “But perhaps I can still find a cure for you. In the meantime, Catasach may consent to treat your pain. It’s worth a try.”

“If he healed you from that, I will trust his abilities,” Constantin says. “If we survive this.”

“Kurt and Vasco are out there fighting, and Kurt had the foresight and heart to warn us. I think we’re in good hands,” he says and pats Constantin’s shoulder. 

He wonders if Vasco will mind being late for his appointment with the tattooist, and he laughs softly while Constantin dozes and time passes, unmarked.


	31. Passages

_Passages_

It’s been awhile since Vasco has felt the resistance of muscle and blood against his blade. He remains in practice, because to grow complacent is to invite death. But it’s been some time since he’s slain anything more than a wayward shark, or when the crew reels in one of the larger food fish. He takes the tiny vial from his coat pocket and drips poison on the tip of his sword to both hasten and ensure death.

He fights alongside Kurt, who’s donned more solid armor, and Petrus, who doesn’t fight with weapons--which would be why he prefers his plate armor. Vasco doesn’t wear much beyond his thick coat, trusting his quick senses and agility to protect him. While treasonous guards go after Kurt, Vasco whirls around like a dervish, spearing one in one moment, and slicing across another the next. He can’t think about them as individuals: they’re enemies who have threatened the innocents of the island. While the Nauts as a guild remain politically neutral, Vasco as a man can’t sit by and abide the slaughter of innocents.

The Nauts as a guild do not abide power gained through force, but earned through honor and merit. Sure, there are those who will abuse their positions, and Vasco’s positive there are a few bad apples (every barrel has some), but it can be done. They’re not political, but this is a coup: it’s not about politics, but force.

He’s been told he’s a force of nature.

He lets it out now. He stabs and steps; slashes and turns. He never stops moving; dueling is like dancing and he realizes he’s never danced with Alex before. He may never again, if he and Kurt and Petrus can’t stop this. 

“Most of them are blindly following orders,” Kurt explains during a lull in the fighting. “If we get to Torsten, we cut the head off the snake. Without further orders from the top, this will end.” He blinks sweat out of his eyes and leads them to the barracks.

“Do you want him taken alive?” Vasco asks, wiping his sword on his coat.

“Of course!” Petrus says, shocked at the implication.

“They’d kill us if we didn’t take them first. If Commander Torsten is running this and he threatens my life, I will not hold back unless Kurt tells me to.”

Something akin to a smile twitches at Kurt’s scarred lips. They’re two different types of captains, but they’ve always understood each other, and Vasco is glad to have Kurt on his side right now. “I’d love to tell you to run the bastard through, Captain,” Kurt laments. “But it’s probably best we take him alive if possible.”

Vasco nods his agreement and does not coat his blade this time. They burst into the empty barracks. Kurt barrels up the stairs and kicks in the door of the Commander’s office. Empty. “Would he have known you…” Petrus’s voice trails off. “Turned traitor isn’t quite accurate, not when that’s what all of this is.”

“He knew I was close with Constantin and De Sardet, and I helped take down the ghost camps.” Kurt rubs the back of his neck. “When he started executing his plans I played along. I thought I was convincing, but who knows.”

Vasco sifts through the stack of papers left behind on the desk. Everything is here: names, maps, plans, letters just waiting to be sealed. A pang shoots through his chest as he reads Commander Torsten’s assassination list, and sees  _ Alexandre De Sardet _ clearly written at the top of the list. Killing him is a priority. “You got Alex to safety?” he asks Kurt. 

“And his cousin both squared away in the safe room.” Kurt sees the list in Vasco’s hand and cringes. “Yeah. They were my responsibility.”

Vasco straightens up and holds out his hand; Kurt takes it and shakes, giving Vasco a strange look. “Thank you, Kurt. You’re a good man and I don’t think I’d have enjoyed killing you,” he says and meets Kurt’s eye, so he knows he’s serious. “Now Torsten… I don’t think I’d mind having a go at.”

“He has a ship waiting,” Petrus says as he scans another document.

“Not if I have anything to say about it.” Vasco does not sheath his sword. He’s trained every day of his life, and won’t get complacent now.

In the end they take Torsten down at the end of a dock as he impatiently waits for his ship. It’s try is luck with them, or sink to the bottom of the harbor in his heavy armor. Kurt is only too glad to arrest him and drag him toward the prisons with the help of Petrus. Vasco stays behind on the docks and finds Admiral Cabral waiting, watching their retreating backs. “Seems his ship was late. What a pity,” she muses without looking at Vasco. She sighs. “This is a right mess. But since you’re here…”

He shakes his head. “Thanks, but I’m hoping to reschedule. I’m worn out from the day’s exertions, and have someone to check in on. Which reminds me…”

Now she does look at him and raises one eyebrow. “I should know better, when you get that tone in your voice, Captain. What do you want, Vasco?”

“Forgive me if I’m overstepping a line--”

“Out with it.”

Vasco grins at her bluntness. “Yesterday’s news hit Lord De Sardet hard. He’s not quite sure where he belongs now, doesn’t feel the Congregation will be quite so welcoming anymore, but also isn’t as eager to join one of the clans--and doesn’t know where to start looking even if he did. But he  _ is _ Sea-Born. If he were to claim that birthright…”

Cabral nods. “The circumstances of his existence are not something I care to consider, if we’re being honest here. But if he wishes to claim that right, I am duty bound to allow it.” Suddenly she smiles, the tattooed corners of her eyes crinkling. “Besides, I don’t think you’ll be setting sail without him, and if you did, he’d be receiving the markings of a Sea-Given.”

He grins. “You know your people well, Admiral.”

“All the best Nauts do,” she tells him. “Like you.”

* * *

The pounding on the door startles Alex out of fitful sleep and he sits up stiffly. He conjures a wisp of light at his fingertips, and shivers in the cellar chill. Constantin is wrapped up in all the blankets the safe room has to offer. Alex pads across the cold stone floor and places his hand on the metal door. He hesitates: he wants to open the door, breathe fresh air once again, be free of the sickness that seems to emanate off of Constantin; or maybe their talk didn’t really clear the air, and he’s been breathing jealousy and fear and bitterness for the past who knows how many hours.

He pauses: anyone could be on the other side of the door, poised to assassinate him and Constantin. Alex readies a spell, reaches for the door…

“Greenblood! You in there?” Kurt’s voice is muffled, but it fills Alex with relief. Still, he can’t be too cautious.

“I am, but only if you can tell me how I got the scar on my forearm.” He leans his forehead against the cool metal and grins. It’s been a long-running joke between them ever since Kurt started training them.

“He could, but it would be faster if you’d open up, Tempest.”

No one can mimic Vasco’s voice; he trusts Vasco’s tone, muffled though his voice may be, and heaves the door open. He doesn’t bother assessing the situation before flinging himself into Vasco’s arms and pulling him close in a suffocating embrace. 

“You trust too easily, Greenblood,” Kurt tells him, but he’s smiling: tired, dirty, a bit banged up, but smiling. “And you got that the first time I knocked you on your spoilt arse to prove I wasn’t playing. I could still best you.”

“No argument there.” Alex flashes him a grin and holds Vasco at arms’ length. He’s dusty, one of his cuffs is frayed, and there is exhaustion in his eyes. “I’m guessing you missed your appointment?” he teases. He lifts Vasco’s hat off, brushes the wayward strands of hair from his face.

“There’s always tomorrow.”

Kurt clears his throat. “Perhaps we should tell our governor what happened? I think he may want to know.”

Alex hands Vasco his hat and goes to Constantin. He’s sleeping soundly enough, though his brows are knit together in intense concentration, as if he’s dreaming of contract negotiations, or maybe of encountering his father. He shakes his cousin gently, and Constantin groans. “Alex? Where…” He turns and winces as a spasm wracks his body. “Ah. I remember now. Are we safe?”

“Yes, Constantin.” Alex lightly squeezes Constantin’s shoulder. 

They help him back upstairs to his proper chambers, and Alex provides orders to ensure his privacy and comfort. There’s a crisis afoot that, for once, doesn’t involve himself or his identity, and Alex functions best when he has too many things to do and too much desire for efficiency. He settles in Constantin’s office and begins writing.

He answers the correspondence that Constantin’s illness has forced him to leave alone. He sends word to the doctors of Hikmet, requesting their aid, and the healers of Theleme. He trusts Catasach; but above all, Alex must be a diplomat, and to exclude the Bridge and Theleme from this conversation is to tacitly choose a side. 

As he writes he realizes he must choose a side. While only some in his little circle currently know the truth, the island is only so large, and word can spread faster than wildfire. Life at court taught him that early on. The quicker he gets this business done, the quicker he can decide his future and then let things take their course.

He’s never been the type to just allow things to fall into place; being raised at court was like a game. Plot several moves ahead, and have multiple contingencies. He realizes that’s exactly why he exists.

The candles are burning low and he has a tired lover to tend to when he returns home. He ignores his own exhaustion and draws a bath, heating it with his own magic, and helps Vasco into the warm water. He traces his tattoos with the cloth, wondering if he will ever earn even a fraction of the ink his love has. He is careful when cleaning the ugly bruises that Vasco’s clothes hid. He keeps the water warm, steaming, and pulls Vasco to his chest, one arm draped over his shoulder, fingers lightly drumming against his chest; and the other underwater, resting on the defined curve of his hip. 

He closes his eyes; feels Vasco’s breathing against him, imagines being rocked by the lull of the water for the rest of his life and thinks he just may have made his decision.


	32. The Tale Within

_The Tale Within_

“You’re going to get that done to yourself.” Kurt crosses his arms over his chest and tries to look stoic, impassive, but the doubtful expression on his face, and the way he winces, is almost comical.

“Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to talk me out of it.” Alex can’t see much: the tattooist blocks his view of Vasco. Occasionally he pauses to dab at Vasco’s face with a cloth that comes away with small blots of red and pink. Alex makes himself watch, because there is no way he’s backing out now, and he has to understand the process.

The few glimpses he has gotten, Vasco is almost serene: eyes closed, breathing steady, but his hands grip the arms of the chair tightly. His knuckles are white, as if he’s channeling everything to his grip. Alex is surprised the chair hasn’t collapsed yet.

“Not trying to talk you out of it,” Kurt says, unconvincingly at that. “At least I’ll get to see if your blood is really green.” He does grin and even Alex chuckles at that.

“If you’d been with us at Wenshaveye you’d have seen just how red it really is,” he jibes back. “I’m thinking after that, this should be nothing.”

Vasco joins them a moment later. His cheeks are red, the skin a little puffy, but his eyes are clear and his grin cheekily proud. He tilts his head so Alex can get a better look at the fresh ink commemorating his work in Wenshaveye. “What do you think?” he asks.

“I love it. I love you,” Alex says and gives him a gentle kiss. His breathing trembles. His heart races. He hasn’t told Vasco what he wants yet, and now as he stands here, seeing just how decorated Vasco is, he feels suddenly inadequate. It doesn’t bother him that Vasco will always outrank him. Vasco’s been a Naut his whole life, but Vasco is also driven and disciplined in a way Alex isn’t. For a moment he’s that stoic force of nature standing on the pier overseeing all.

Maybe he’ll come back. Share his decision another day. The tattooist appears to be packing up, after all.

“And I you, Tempest,” Vasco replies. Then he drops his gaze and looks almost shy. “I had the chance to speak with the Admiral yesterday.” He reaches out, takes Alex’s hand. “The records exist. You’re a Naut by birth, so it’s your right to wear that. If you consent, that is.”

Vasco could order Alex to receive the markings. Cabral could invoke her powers as Admiral to claim Alex. But the circumstances of his own existence are so dubious, that everyone leaves it to him to choose. It’s at once a relief, and yet terrifying. 

“I am proud, honored to claim you as my lover,” Vasco says, voice softer. Kurt shuffles away, whistling some sea shanty he picked up somewhere. “I’d also be honored to call you my ink-brother.”

That seals it. Alex nods and Vasco leads him to the chair. The tattooist wasn’t packing up; as it turns out he was laying out a new set of tools, as if he expected Alex to be ready today. “First time, eh?” the tattooist asks, and Alex nods. His mouth is too dry to speak, and he chides himself for this feeling. This is a choice he’s making; perhaps the very first choice in his own existence. He couldn’t choose to be taken from his real mother, or to be raised at the d’Orsay court. He didn’t choose to be Sea-Born, but Admiral Cabral has offered him the choice to claim his birthright, and more than that, Vasco supports it. Vasco could tell him no, could persuade him not to choose this life. Instead, he stands behind Alex and begins softly carding his fingers through Alex’s hair.

Warm tingles rush through him and he could melt into this hard wooden chair, but then the first prick stabs into his skin and he inhales sharply. The tattooist pauses and meets his eyes. Vasco never stops lightly touching him, soothing him, and Alex nods for him to go on.

After the first few pricks, he gets used to it--though it does hurt. It’s a strange, raw burning feeling that doesn’t go away when the artist pauses to dab away at his chin. He keeps his eyes closed and envisions the endless expanse of ocean. So many months ago he couldn’t stand it, and now, as the island closes around him, all he wants is the open air and the ocean as far as he can see.

The needle is the seaspray, flung into his face as the ship cuts across the ocean. The harbor waters lap against the dock, the gulls call overhead, and the smell of salt is more intoxicating than any wine or spirit. He breathes slowly, methodically, and eventually the needle pain just blends into itself: at times fiery, other times just numb, and it feels as if it’s over all too soon.

The tattooist blots the last of the ooze away and sits back to admire his careful work. Vasco’s hands leave his shoulders, and he comes around to view. “Oh. I didn’t realize it would…” he begins, and then lets out a low whistle. Alex opens his eyes, initially concerned--he’s made the wrong choice, Vasco doesn’t like it, it’s too late--but Vasco stares at him, eyes sparkling and…

“Tears?” he asks in a shaky voice. “It can’t look  _ that _ bad, Vasco.”

“I didn’t realize it would look so  _ good. _ ”

“Keep impugning my work, Captain, and next time I have you in the chair I’ll tattoo an arse between your eyebrows,” the tattooist grumbles, and they all laugh.

Vasco offers a rude hand gesture, but they’re both grinning and Alex realizes they have a comfortable friendship. He glances around and spies Flavia and Lauro, with whom he became acquainted in Serene; as well as others of Vasco’s former crew, paused in their work to gawk at him. Vasco hands him a tiny hand mirror so Alex can see the fine line work so perfectly etched into his chin. He’s a little swollen and puffy, the skin red, and Vasco plops a wide-brimmed hat on him. “Your skin will be sensitive to the sun for a time. You think it burns now, just let the sun at it for a bit.” He grimaces in a way that suggests he’s been there before, and Alex cracks a relieved grin. 

He’s always been marked, but now they’re more than just marks. They tell a story of a baby born aboard a ship to a mother torn from her homeland. Of a man bonded to the island of Teer Fradee, who has spilled blood and connected to a guardian. Of a Naut claiming his heritage, and making his final decision. No matter what happens with Constantin, after he’s tied up all of his loose ends, Alex will go to sea with Vasco. He wears his story on his face, and his heart on his sleeve.

* * *

Petrus finds him that night in a corner of the tavern. Kurt and Vasco have gone downstairs to bet on the arena fights, and Alex won’t be surprised if either one of them end up in an arena fight, or winning coin of the other. He nurses a bowl of stew and crusty bread, and a weak ale, because Vasco has cautioned against drinking too heavily, or drinking stronger spirits, right after getting his ink. “I’ve seen more than enough of your blood to last me a lifetime, Tempest,” he’d said before giving him a light kiss on the cheek and heading downstairs.

“I’m not accustomed to seeing you out at the tavern, Bishop,” Alex greets him. “Can I get you anything?”

“Thank you, but…” Rarely does the bishop appear so flustered, so uncertain. His smooth voice and even smoother political maneuvers have given him a veneer of confidence and unflappability that is nowhere to be seen just now. Alex gestures for him to sit, and he joins him at the table. “This is a tale best told sober.”

Long has Petrus been hiding something beneath his armor and behind his smile. Suddenly Alex realizes he’s going to find out what that is, and there isn’t any stopping it unless he says the word. In that moment Petrus meets his eyes, giving him permission to put a stop to this, but not begging him to do so. Alex has learned a lot about who he is and isn’t in the last few days. Perhaps whatever Petrus knows will provide closure… or more questions. Alex has that one moment to decide.

“I’m listening.” 

Petrus nods once and lets out his breath. “As you know I was at court when you were young. I watched you grow for a time, before I returned to Theleme. I would have been allowed to remain in Serene; I was quite welcome there. However, I had to leave.”

The introduction tells Alex only what he already knew; he was quite young when Petrus was at court, and any memory he has of him is vague. Perhaps he was seen as just the religious man that he and Constantin tried to avoid, or perhaps they concocted pranks to play on him. He clutches his mug and stares at Petrus.

“The truth is that I knew your mother.”

“Of course you did; you were at court.”

“Not Priscilla De Sardet, though she was a lovely woman who cared deeply for you and loved you like her own.” Petrus’s smile remembers her fondly, though the sadness is still behind his eyes. “I knew your real mother.”

Alex touches his birthmark without thinking: that which has always set him apart, no matter what training and upbringing he has received. That which came to him before his birth, from two parents bound to the land. Numbness settles into him. “How?” he whispers.

“I cannot speak to what happened before the ship arrived in Serene, only that I’d heard they brought with them a native woman and a Sea-Born baby. The ship captain was ordered to bring the child to the prince, and the woman was brought to the cells. At that time I was serving as a spiritual advisor to prisoners.” Petrus looks away from Alex, stares off into a cobwebbed corner…

* * *

_ “Aye, Bishop. You won’t have any luck with that one.” The key holder shakes his head and waves Petrus away from the last cell in the prison. “Doesn’t even speak proper language.” _

_ At this Petrus’s ears perk up. He’s always enjoyed a challenge; the Illumined has chosen him to spread the Light in the darkest of places, and what’s darker than the final prison cell and a prisoner who can’t speak his language? “The Light touches all who will receive,” he tells the guard. “I will go.” _

_ They laugh, comment about his faith and the futility of it. Petrus heard tell of the woman brought off the most recent ship, knows Captain Cabral brought the child to the Prince D’Orsay directly--most odd considering her guild would have first claim over the child. It’s worth sharing with the Theleme Ambassador at some point. But today the Light has other business for him. _

_ He carries a lantern and stops at the end of the corridor. He holds the light before him and the figure in the cell glances at him before curling up in the corner, facing away from him. “Hello. I greet you in the name of the Light.” He keeps his tone calm and caring--he’s never cared for the harsh methods of the Ordo Luminis. Fear and violence can only get so far, and from what he’s seen, threats only work on those who have something to lose. _

_ After a moment she shifts and looks at him again. Her expression is that of a woman who’s lost everything, and might actually welcome the threats of the Ordo if it means her misery will end sooner. Lamplight catches her golden hazel eyes, which are red and puffy in her pale face. He’s stunned by her delicate bone structure, her full lips, her carefully braided auburn hair (though it’s showing signs of disarray). But most striking of all is the grey-brown mark that reaches up her neck and over her cheek. It has the appearance of tree bark, but her expression is neither stiff nor hindered by it.  _

_ Petrus has been approached by several young ladies of Theleme, but always claimed his devotion to the Light would preclude him from attending to them the way they deserve. This woman may be the loveliest he’s ever seen. _

_ He examines these thoughts as the days pass and she finally faces him full on. Her clothes grow ragged and shabby, yet she refuses to wear the dresses the Merchant Congregation offers. When one guard brings a teal dress with long sleeves and a lace collar, she spits out  renaigse and stares him down until he leaves, swearing the whole time. Perhaps she is lovely because she still has a strong will that won’t break. Indeed, Petrus has stopped trying to convert her, because she won’t care, and also, because it seems too cruel to take her beliefs from her when everything else is gone. _

_ It’s not unusual for him to find her crying, holding her hands to her belly while her harsh sobs echo through the prison. The guards’ demands that she shut it do nothing but make her cry harder.  Riaghail, she sobs into her dirty hands. Petrus can’t determine if that was the name of her land, or her husband, and doesn’t want to think that it’s the name of her child.  _

_ He doesn’t tell her he’s seen the child at court, cared for by a wet nurse and governess who are both in constant attendance to Lady Priscilla De Sardet. That he’s been named Alexandre, that the Nauts have sailed again without so much as a word about reclaiming the Sea-Born child.  _

_ He does tell her about his faith, about his upbringing, about his dreams and ambitions. She stares at him with her intelligent eyes, thin arms wrapped around her knees. She shivers, he brings a blanket. The guards make some paltry comment about it not being allowed, and he threatens to bring the armies of Theleme and the Ordo Luminis itself upon them if they continue to deny a grieving mother the most basic of comforts. _

_ He wrestles with whether it is better to allow her to think her son is dead. If she knew he was alive, it could be worse. But even now she still cries, starts refusing to eat, only drinks when Petrus asks her so softly to do so. Her meals are carried off in bits by the bugs and mice. The light in her eyes is carried off in bits by the days without her child, in this strange cell in this strange land with the people who laugh and shout at her.  _

_ “You come every day,” she says suddenly, and Petrus is so startled he falls backward off his low prayer bench. “Why.” _

_ “The Light--” _

_ “You are a mind shaker. You haven’t tried to shake me. Why.” _

_ He’s stunned, because he didn’t realize how much of the language she’d picked up by listening to him, to the guards, and probably the Nauts and other Congregation members on the trip back to Serene. He is relieved he hasn’t taken her for a fool. “The Light shines where it is needed,” he recites. “But you don’t need the light.” He holds his breath, waiting to be struck down for his blasphemy. “You need that which I cannot give you. In its stead, I give you my company and my care.” And so much more, but he doesn’t tell her. He won’t tell anyone. He’s committed a cardinal sin and allowed his sinful heart to lead him astray… but is it so bad to love someone, to care and want to help them? “I am Petrus.” _

_ “I know.” _

_ “And you?” _

_ Her face has grown thinner since he first saw her. Her skin, sallow and papery with the lack of light. Dark circles ring her hollow eyes. “Arelwin.” _

_ “Your mark…” _

_ Her bony fingers trail over it and tears well up in her eyes. “I was bonded to  Tir Fradi .” She continues on, dissolving into her native tongue and Petrus lets her speak and grieve. Several times he hears  Riaghail and he’s terrified to ask who that was. _

_ When he returns later that week she lies on her side, knees pulled up to her chest, and her head resting on the dank stone floor. Her braids long ago became a tangled nest; early on she tried to comb through with her fingers, and then gave up. “Petrus?” she asks. _

_ “Arelwin. I’m here.” He kneels beside the cell, stretches his arm in for her, but can’t quite reach. He sees the blanket, now mildewy, in the corner. “You’re not well,” he realizes. _

_ “Petrus, kill me.” Her voice is small and thin as glass. “I serve no purpose. Everything is gone. I have no reason to live. All I feel is pain.” _

_ But I’m here. I can help you , he thinks, and as soon as he does, he realizes how stupid it all sounds. The whole time he tried to be here for Arelwin, she was wasting away with ghosts of her husband and her child and her far-off land. “Please don’t say that,” he chides gently. “All we need--” _

_ “I don’t wish to live any longer. If I am to die here, I’d like it to be by your hand.” She does meet his eyes, and there is no light in hers. She’s dull, burned out and given up. She has nothing left to fight for and nothing left to give. _

_ He leaves. _

_ He never returns. _

_ He stays at court for a few more years, watches Alexandre grow into a quick and intelligent boy with a talent for magic. The other children tease him for his birthmark, but Priscilla has raised him well, and he ignores their taunts. When he catches Petrus watching him, he has the same bright hazel eyes of Arelwin. _

_ He assumes Arelwin has passed, but he doesn’t go to the cells. He requests a transfer out of Serene. “Where to?” the Mother Cardinal of Serene asks. “With your record you could go anywhere. There may be a position open for you back in Theleme.” _

_ But he shakes his head. “No, I’d like to humbly request that I be transferred to San Matheus on the island of Teer Fradee.” _

_ Her face lights up. “Oh wonderful! You will do great work in the footsteps of our blessed saint, and in spreading the Light to the pagans of that land.” _

_ He doesn’t contradict her. He’s a coward running from his problems. The last thing she needs it to understand why he’s running to that island. _

* * *

“So when I first saw you in San Matheus, my heart stopped; your eyes, your hair, your very face. Everything about you reminded me of Arelwin.” Petrus stares at the scarred tabletop, looking contrite. “There was never another; I loved her with all I had. I loved her too much to kill her when she asked, and yet not enough to do what she wanted.” 

Alex is speechless; Cabral’s confession left him reeling, but having these details paints a picture he needs to see and yet never wanted to see. The room is too stuffy; voices press on his ears, pipe smoke chokes him. “I need to go,” he tells Petrus, and stumbles away from the table. He is vaguely aware he has to pay his tab and dumps his purse out on the counter. He can hear the barkeep calling for him and he keeps going, shoving through the press of bodies, moving toward the door that never seems to come closer. 

Someone grabs his arm and he wrenches it away and makes a dive for the door just as someone opens it from the outside. Alex goes barreling out into the streets and tumbles head over heels in the dust. He struggles to his feet and keeps moving. His chest aches--not with pain from his injuries, but sobs swelling up that he can’t get past the choking point in his throat. 

“Alex! Tempest!” Vasco calls, and Alex should slow down, but he can’t, he keeps moving until he’s outside the north gate on the bandit-riddled north road in the middle of the night. Vasco catches up to him and pulls him into a tight hug that Alex struggles against until the fight leaves him and he slumps against his lover. “Mind telling me where we’re going at this hour?” he asks. No other questions. He just knows Alex can’t talk about this right now. Alex loves him all the more, and it sends another surge of emotion through him. He shudders against Vasco, who keeps holding tightly.

“Siora,” he says at last with a hiccup. “I need to see Siora.”


	33. Profit and Loss

_Profit and Loss_

Step one: Acquire training, wealth, privilege, and education.

Step two: Head to Teer Fradee and settle there.

Step three: …

Step four: Profit.

It’s right there in their name: Merchant Congregation. It’s always about the profit, and about cutting expenses and losses. It’s been about getting what they can even at the expense of others. It’s been about opportunity, regardless of who might get hurt, and it’s been that way for centuries. Alex feels foolish to think that he could have been any different.

“I grew up thinking my mother… well, first, believing she was my mother,” he tells Siora and Vasco. “I grew up thinking she loved me. She was just protecting her brother’s investment.” He rubs his burning, scratchy eyes. The sun came up some time ago, and he hasn’t yet slept. He doesn’t want to close his eyes on the information Petrus gave him. When Cabral told him he was Sea-Born, he’d thought his real mother died at sea. 

His stomach leaps and he bends his head over the wooden bucket at his feet, but nothing comes up. Arelwin starved and shivered and wasted away while he was given to the best wet nurse and handled like delicate glass. Arelwin’s corpse rotted away while he attended the best academy and had the finest tutors. Arelwin’s bones turned to dust while he wore silken finery, shiny gold, and sparkling jewels. All this time he bore her mark and hated it, when it was the only thing she was able to give him.

“What do I do now?” he asks. 

The whole natural order of his life is in question: between his own origins and Constantin’s sickness, what should have been simple is now complex and difficult to unravel.

Vasco pulls him to his feet and helps him straighten his back and square his shoulders, then taps under his chin to force him to look up. “I think I see the Alexandre De Sardet I met aboard that ship so many weeks ago,” he says with an approving nod. “I call you my Tempest, and now you are caught in a tempest of your own. If you’re to be a Naut, this is as good a training as ever for that.”

Alex has little choice but to humor him. “What do you mean?” 

“The sea is unpredictable. We do what we can with our magic,” he says, making quotes with his fingers in a gesture that makes Alex smile in spite of his turmoil. “But that only helps us prepare. Once the storm hits we have to do what we can to stay afloat. As a captain, there are only certain things I can control, and the sooner I let go of what’s out of my control, the better I can handle the rest.”

“But--”

Vasco shakes his head, his expression stern. He’s taken on his captain’s stance now, staring Alex down with those cool sea-grey eyes and assessing him, debating if he’s sea-worthy or not. His birth at sea has nothing to do with his worth or ability. The thought of seeing disappointment written between the lines of Vasco’s face stings like salt water to a wound. “You can’t control who you are and how that came to pass. You can control what you’ll do next. Like marching to Hikmet and discovering what the fuck those doctors are up to.” 

Alex swallows his pride and staunches the ache in his chest. He can’t control this. He can control his reaction, and his actions. He can find out what the Bridge is playing at, and why Siora’s people hate them so much… and if he uncovers a cure for Constantin’s illness in the process, all the better.

It’s past dawn when he, Vasco, and Siora depart Vedrad for New Serene. Kurt meets up with them at the gate and Alex runs down the plan. They’ll return to the Hickmet region and get what they can from the Bridge scholars. “Constantin didn’t fall ill until the doctors began crowding about him,” Alex explains in the safety of his locked house. “Which began…”

“As soon as we docked,” Vasco finishes.

“Then why haven’t I gotten sick?” Alex wonders aloud. He sifts through his time on Teer Fradee in his mind. Constantin first showed signs of feeling ill after his return from Hikmet, but it wasn’t enough to be concerned over. He was worse when Alex came back from San Matheus, and had the full-blown illness after Alex’s weeks away recovering in Wenshaveye. In that whole time Alex has not felt a single symptom of the Malichor. And certainly, if he’d been affected, someone would have noticed the color of his blood, considering how much of it he lost. “And how could he grow up in the heart of Serene, where his own aunt--” (he can’t bring himself to refer to her as his mother)-- “had advanced stage Malichor and lived in the palace?”

“Lady Morange didn’t seem too concerned about them when she met us at the docks, so we had no reason to worry,” Kurt muses. “Unless they told her it was an antidote in case we’d brought it with us?” 

“The lions have been taking my people from their very beds,” Siora says quietly. “Remember how they didn’t want to return my mother’s body? She was also  _ on ol menawi _ . Your illness does not touch my people.” She meets Alex’s eyes, and again he’s disconcerted by her resemblance to him, even after he’s been told why. “Perhaps you too were poisoned with this Malichor, but as your blood is bound to the land, you are immune.”

He too grew up in the heart of Serene, with Lady De Sardet looking over him. He even kissed her withered brow and touched her frail hands, festering with blackened sores. He should have been sick long ago. His discomfort and his anger blend together, blot out the stain in his mind. The prince--he won’t call him his uncle ever again--sent him here to use him? He won’t be that pawn. He can play the games as well as, if not better than, anyone.

The prince probably could not have predicted Petrus’s confession, or Alex’s injury and subsequently being bound to the island. Alex will do what he’s always done, and use every advantage he can.

Planning for a mission sets his mind to work again, and within the hour he’s sent word to Constantin and Catasach that he’s going on another trip to Hikmet, and written directives to the palace staff that they are to welcome and entertain Catasach as a revered guest. He calls on Lady Morange, who receives his surprise visit graciously. She hardly bats an eye as she calls for tea and light refreshment and bids him to have a seat in her airy sitting room.

“Dreadful what happened with the coup,” she begins, and Alex nods. “We are fortunate to have Captain Kurt on our side.”

“It would have gone much differently were it not for Kurt’s loyalty.” Alex shudders when he thinks about just how differently. “Though our troubles are not quite through.” He speaks of Constantin’s illness, and how the healers of Theleme and the Bridge have been invited, but so far only Catasach is present to aid wherever he can. “You greeted us on the dock that day of our arrival; is it common for the doctors to greet newly arrived passengers?”

She sips thoughtfully. “It could be? To be honest, I hadn’t made much of an effort to make it a habit in the last couple of years. After a time the arrivals all blended together.” She shrugs a bit ruefully. 

Alex isn’t completely convinced that she isn’t involved, but he thanks her for the tea and makes her aware that he is headed back to Hikmet. “Kurt has posted guards, and Sir De Courcillon is attending to Constantin along with the healer, Catasach,” he informs her.

“Catasach is a native name, is it not?”

“It is. Doubtless you’ve also heard of the accident that befell me,” Alex says, and she nods. “Were it not for Catasach, I’d be dead.”

“I am glad to hear that he will be in attendance then,” she tells him, and she sounds sincere, and he wants to believe her, though his trust in all things Merchant Congregation is eroded.

There is still much outside of his control, especially now that he’s starting to note the timing of Constantin’s illness. But it gives him a new purpose, and he sets out for Hikmet at sunrise the next morning, resolute and ready to take on Governor Burhan and the entire Bridge Alliance if he needs to in order to get to the bottom of this.

Step one: have a plan.

Step two: commit to it.

Step three: execute.

Step four: profit.

There’s no room for loss, not this time, not with Constantin’s life on the line.


	34. Cure for What Ails You

_Cure for What Ails You_

Everything was still so new about Teer Fradee the last time he traveled to Hikmet, that Alex didn’t really notice the countryside as he passed through it. It’s only been weeks, maybe a couple months, but Serene feels like a faraway dream in which a different Alexandre De Sardet existed. Their road takes them through a great valley where they break from their travels. Alex’s determination has them on a tight schedule, but he agrees to an hour of rest.

While the others nibble at trail rations and make small talk about the weather, he wanders off the road a short ways. The ground is mushy beneath his boots and quiet hangs in the air like the vines between the trees. The dappled sunlight sparkles on the marshy puddles and glints off of the smooth curve of a bottle. Alex frowns and picks it up, studying it, something so out of place on the edges of the swamps.

The faint rustle above is Alex’s only warning as someone drops out of the tree, splashing into the water in front of him. She draws a knife and slashes at him. Alex dodges, whacking her hand out of the way. The knife is lost in the ankle-deep muddy water, and he brings up a shield spell--but not before she’s drawn her gun and holds the barrel level, aimed between his eyes, the hammer cocked. “Give me one reason not to shoot you,” she says, narrowing her amber eyes at him.

A dozen different reasons vie for the forefront of his mind, but the one that does come out makes him wince. “I’ve never been shot point-blank before. I’m not sure if your bullet will be absorbed by my shield, or ricochet off of it,” he explains. “Either is possible, but I doubt we’d like to find out.”

She raises an eyebrow and her cheek twitches, the only hint that she’s holding back a smile. “A man of science I see.” She lowers her gun, but not her guard. “And what are you doing out here, dressed and speaking as one of us, and yet with the face of a native islander  _ and  _ the markings of the Nauts?”

He bristles at her commentary, and her amused tone, as if he’s some sort of curiosity or novelty to be studied. But then he gets a good look at her mode of dress. “And what’s a Bridger doing dive-bombing people from the treetops?” he counters.

“Observant in addition to being well-spoken. I am Aphra, and I could say I was studying the flora of the swampy treetops, but alas, that would be untrue.” Finally her facade crumbles and he can see the dark circles under her eyes and the sagging shoulders. “I do study flora and fauna of the island for the Bridge Alliance, though my expedition was ambushed some weeks ago. I’ve managed to continue researching, until recently when a group of natives discovered me. I’ve been on the run since.”

“Alexandre De Sardet, Legate of the Merchant Congregation,” he says, and just shakes his head when she seems about to question his birthmark and his tattoos. “Long story. But my companions and I are on our way to Hikmet, if you’d like safe passage home.”

By then their allotted rest period is nearly over, and he draws curious stares as he emerges from the swamp with Aphra in tow. He introduces her and offers his waterskin and trail rations, which she accepts, and then they’re off once more. Alex hangs toward the back with Siora. “Just say it,” he tells her.

“If you know I want to say it, then do I really need to?” Siora wrinkles her nose. “No wonder the  _ doneia esregaw _ attacked her and her people.” 

“At least we’re getting her out of the lands and back to her city,” Alex counters. Siora’s less than impressed, but she doesn’t bring it up again. However, once they arrive in Hikmet, she also won’t leave Alex’s flat there, either. 

“I won’t wander a city filled with people who view me and my people as scientific experiments waiting to happen,” Siora says. “Not when the lions come like thieves in the night.”

“Oh, as your  _ doneia esregaw _ did for us?” Aphra asks. Her pronunciation of the native tongue is flawless, but stiff and affected: the tone of a scholar. “We were just scholars researching a cure for the Malichor, and attempting to bring some order to the chaos here.”

“Enough.” Vasco enters the front room, rubbing his face with a white towel. His cheeks are pink from washing in chilly water, and a few tendrils of hair have escaped his tie and curl slightly about his face. “Siora, we understand you wishing to remain behind. Aphra, we look forward to meeting the governor with you and getting to the bottom of everything.” His own smile is tense, and his tone brooks no argument. 

Though he has no reason to trust her, Alex finds it fortuitous that Aphra has joined them. It will help cushion the conversation with Governor Burhan. They wait in the lobby of his audience chamber while Aphra goes in to see her sovereign. Alex paces while Vasco stares out the window and Kurt moodily leans against a wall, arms crossed over the front of his doublet. They could slice the tension in the air, if they’d brought weapons into the building with them.

Finally a servant bids them enter, and Alex strides in with Vasco and Kurt behind him. “Thank you for receiving us on such short notice,” he begins, and Burhan waves away the pleasantries.

“Scouts brought word of your arrival last night. I fully expected an audience with you today.” The Governor sits straight, tense and alert. “I’ve heard the news of your cousin’s illness, and dispatched the best medics in Hikmet.”

“For which I thank you.” Alex bows in thanks, though he himself is tense enough that a breeze could blow him over. “I am also pleased that you have had a chance to speak with Aphra. It is our hope she will make a quick recovery from her ordeal.”

At this, both Burhan and Aphra exchange a glance and slight chuckle. “You are a merchant, so I forgive your ignorance,” the Governor begins. “Alliance field members are made of sturdy stuff. They undergo rigorous field training and survival studies. There is a reason Aphra was the only surviving member of her party.”

“I regret the loss of my colleagues, and have mourned for them, but also understand the importance of moving on in the name of science,” Aphra explains.

“That’s warm and fuzzy,” Vasco grumbles, and Kurt coughs to stifle a laugh.

Aphra narrows her golden-brown eyes at him. “Do you drop anchor in the middle of a raging sea to find the one swept overboard by forces outside of your control,  _ Captain? _ ”

“When I can, I do.” Vasco’s even voice and definitive answer closes the argument between them before it can even start.

Alex glances between Burhan and Aphra, and all of the anger and accusations he had been ready to heap upon the Bridge Alliance starts to fizzle. He still blames the doctors, still isn’t sure he likes the idea of more Bridge doctors headed to Constantin’s side. He takes a measured breath and lets it out slowly, smiling. “I am glad, then, that we were able to assist with Aphra’s return.”

“Perhaps you’ll assist with something else, then.” Governor Burhan leans forward slightly, calculating his risk. “Aphra and her colleagues were on a mission to find a cure for the Malichor. A… great panacea, if you will. Given your concern for your cousin’s health, it benefits both of us if you were to allow Aphra to join you.”

Siora will skewer him. Already Vasco’s giving him that narrowed side-eye he usually reserves for Constantin or any other politician. Only Kurt doesn’t react, and it’s because he doesn’t care who joins them so long as he keeps getting paid, and they have his back on the battlefield. Alex smiles politely and nods once. “Yes, we are desperately seeking a cure, and if Aphra’s research and the assistance of the Bridge Alliance helps us, than I accept.”

He’ll deal with the fallout later.

* * *

Later happens as soon as he crosses his threshold with Aphra behind him. Alex feels Siora’s magic rumbling around them through her connection to the earth. She doesn’t go for her knife to unleash the binding she shares with Teer Fradee, but she is still angry. “The lions don’t care for anything except their pursuit of knowledge,” she snaps.

Alex sits on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, and keenly aware of how tired he is now that the anger has gone out of him. “And that pursuit can save my cousin,” he tells her. He can’t explain it in any other way. Only Constantin hasn’t manipulated him all this time. Only Constantin has shared their childhood and the struggles of court life in a dying country. This was supposed to be their new start, and death has followed them here. Like a curse.

“I’ll do anything to save him,” Alex finally says in a quiet voice without looking at her. “Because he’d do anything to save me. I understand if you want to leave, though so long as Aphra is in my company I will ensure that she doesn’t take advantage of you or your people.”

Siora leaves him alone.

But she doesn’t leave the flat, and joins them the next morning when heading out of Hikmet. She says nothing, and Alex expects she’ll leave his company once they get out of the city limits, but she does not. She hangs near the back, chatting quietly with Vasco, while he leads.

“My team did not harass the area tribes in any way.” Aphra keeps pace with him. “I wish she could understand that we just want--”

“Everyone wants something, and too often, in the case of Siora and her people, it’s been at their expense,” Alex interrupts. “The people of this island have been good to me and have saved my life, so I will more often than not defer to them. I want to make this clear in case you decide you’d prefer to return to Hikmet.” He looks over at Aphra expectantly. She’s hardly flustered, and studies him like she would one of her specimens.

“I can see why they’ve been so kind to you,” she says at last.

It reminds him of why he was taken, why he was raised the way he was, why he’s here in the first place, and why he hates the position he’s been wedged into--especially now that Constantin is ill. “I’ll thank you not to discuss that with me,” he tells her. “What did you discover about this panacea?”

She flows with the change of topic easily. “The people spoke of one they called the Tierna Harh Cadachtas. They always sounded quite reverent when her name was uttered, and they used, what I think, is the word for ‘heal’ quite often. Your friend could tell us more about her and her role, if she were inclined.”

“She isn’t,” Vasco calls to them a beat later.

The Tierna Harh Cadachtas. If Siora won’t talk about this shaman, perhaps Catasach will. It’s not a cure, but it’s a start.


	35. Influence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So things got a bit hectic with work, life, and projects of varying sorts, but I am still at work on this story and do intend to finish up through the end game! I appreciate all who have followed, read, left kudos and comments and bookmarks thus far! I'm so glad others enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoy writing it. Thank you!

_ Influence _

“This is ill council.” Siora crosses her arms over her chest and glares at Catasach and her magic swirls through the air like an unseen hurricane. Alex feels it, can almost see it, and understands the source of her anger; but he also understands that there are some things that are bigger than anger, and this is one of them.

“You are not yet  _ mal _ of a clan, Siora.” Catasach’s voice is still low, calm and resonant. It can put anyone at ease… anyone except Siora. “You seek to learn, so use this as a chance to do so. And you,” he adds, turning his deep, dark eyes to Alex. “You are bonded to Teer Fradee; the Tierna may help you understand more of what that means. And if she does not, Dunncas may.”

Siora is not deterred by Catasach’s admonishment. “ _ He _ may be bonded, but others are not,” she says, holding his gaze for a moment before turning and leaving the audience chamber where they’ve gathered.

Alex can only pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration, but Catasach’s words to him are kind. “She is young. She is right to be suspicious, but sometimes we must move where the wind takes us. It is the young and pliable tree that survives the storm by bending with the winds, while the staunchly stiff one is uprooted entirely.”

“I appreciate your faith in me. I think,” Alex tells him. He turns his attention to Constantin. The dark splotches that are the malichor’s hallmark have increased, and his eyes are glassy. When he smiles, his teeth are blackened with his blood. “Cousin, I must leave again, but I’ll be back,” he promises.

When Constantin speaks, it’s breathless and almost manic. “You’re doing what you must.” His breathing comes in hitching gasps. “Whatever it takes. Please. I’m not ready to die.” He makes himself smile, but the fear in his voice is sharp and cuts into Alex.

“Whatever it takes.” Alex rests his hand atop his cousin’s head. Constantin burns beneath his touch.

* * *

  
  


“It’s really for the best,” Aphra chatters as they head out once more. Alex is beginning to wonder why he bothers having a home in New Serene if he’s always going to be on the road… and if he doesn’t even belong to the Merchant Congregation to begin with. “The more we discover about why the islanders are so resistant--”

“We are not your test subjects,” Siora snaps. “Rather than find out why we resist your disease, perhaps you should ask why you are susceptible to it.”

“She has a point,” Vasco notes and Alex bites back a sigh. “Nauts seem particularly resistant as well. And you… well, you’re both,” he teases. When Alex just gives him a warning glare, he sighs. “I’d be happy to tell you about how resistant the Nauts are,” he tells Aphra. 

“So long as she doesn’t cut you open,” Siora mutters.

“I’m done.” Alex stops walking and glares at everyone in turn, though his expression softens when his eyes land on Vasco. “You don’t need to get along. You don’t need to like each other, or convince one another of your truth. But you do need to stop arguing because I’m about to explode.” He holds out his hands, where deep purple light glows in his palms and twines about his fingers in explanation. Ever since bonding with the Glendeman he’s had a different relationship with his power, and what he once so easily wielded is now a wildcard.

When they make camp he sits off by himself, rubbing his temples and seeing stars behind his eyelids. Vasco’s boots crunch in the bracken, and he knows he’s meant to hear it--the captain can be quiet as a cat when he wants to. “Please don’t lecture me, love,” he said without looking up.

“As I’m not your captain, it’s not on me to give you orders.” Vasco sinks to the ground behind him, pulls him close, rubs his shoulders. “But as the one who shares your bed and your heart, it is on me to listen, find out what’s troubling you. There was a time you valued what Siora had to say.”

Alex would be annoyed, but Vasco has a point and also, Vasco’s massage feels good on his tense muscles and he doesn’t want him to stop. “I do value what she has to say. But she’s very biased here.”

“As is Aphra, as are you.” Vasco’s fingers knead more vigorously to keep Alex from stiffening up too much. “You’re the politician; you know better than I do that everyone has an agenda. Your agenda is figuring out theirs and then using it to your advantage.”

“But that’s not my agenda. Not this time.” Alex closes his eyes, grounds himself in Vasco’s touch. “I want nothing more than to heal Constantin, and then be done with this place. I want my friends to stop fighting. I want them--”

“To see things as you do.” Vasco shifts so he’s sitting beside Alex, and tilts his face up with a finger hooked beneath his chin. He meets his eyes. “They won’t. They’re using you as much as you’re using them. No, it’s true. You’re a politician. You do it without even realizing it. And I know your motives are good, and I think Siora sees it too, but consider how you’re going about it and what it looks like.”

“I thought you said you weren’t going to lecture me.” Alex rests his head on Vasco’s shoulder, but he manages to smile because Vasco is right, as always. “You’re a good influence on me. I shudder to think what kind of man I’d be without you.”

“Don’t let it get back to Admiral Cabral,” Vasco murmurs, and leans in for a kiss.


	36. The Steps of the Tierna Harh Cadachtas

“They stay behind.” Siora’s glare burns into Petrus and Aphra. “Frasoneigad is one of our most sacred lands. If we want any hope of the Tierna speaking with us, we leave the Lion and the Mind Shaker.”

Alex agrees, his conversation with Vasco still fresh in his mind. “We will return,” he promises. 

He leaves his weapons at camp, preferring to enter peacefully. He hasn’t committed to the garb of the islanders, though he can tell Siora wishes he would. Would looking the part make this better or worse? In the end he dresses as he always has. Even those feel like borrowed clothes now. He glances at Vasco, at ease in his coat and books and tricorn, in spite of the fact they’re deep inland. Perhaps the dress of the Nauts would suit Alex well.

Constantin’s pallid face floats through his mind. He should not be considering his own future, when that of his cousin is so precarious.

He and Vasco hang back on the outskirts of Vigshadhir as Siora speaks with the villagers. There’s power in this dense forest, outside of this isolated village. It curls up from the grounds, through Alex’s boots and into his bones. The further he gets from the civilization he knows, the more he feels himself rooting into the island.

“This feels wrong.”

Alex glances over at Vasco. “Has anything here felt right?”

“Aside from us being together?” Vasco offers a soft grin. “No. Everyone fighting for what they want… what if we were to let things take their course?”

“I love you, Vasco, but you know I can’t do that.”

“Aye, I do. I just had to say it. Wouldn’t have felt right to keep it in.”

Siora doesn’t say anything when she returns, just angles her head toward a trail and starts walking. Alex misses easy conversation with her, misses feeling like he had someone to help him make sense of this part of his life. But he also misses a hale Constantin, laughing and enjoying life and all it has to offer.

The silence of the deep woods is suited to his mood, but Vasco’s sharp gaze continues to dart about and his hand never leaves his sword. Siora is vigilant as well, her steps purposeful on the pathway.

Alex forces his consciousness outside of himself. He listens and allows himself to feel the pull of the land deep within him.

No birds chattering. The faint breeze barely stirs the leaves. Teer Fradee holds its breath. 

Siora stops at the edge of a clearing and points. Alex searches in that direction until he spots movement. The purposeful steps of a hunter. The too-green floppy hat of the Bridge Alliance. A raised gun barrel, aimed at the woman lounging under a huge willow tree, curled up with two large salamanders.

“Flank,” Vasco whispers, and he and Alex move off the path and toward the hunter’s side. Siora remains crouched in the tall grass and shrubs. 

The hunter moves forward.

Magic gathers in Alex’s palms and Vasco shakes his head.  _ Not yet. _

The crack of gunfire splits the air, and Teer Fradee exhales in a cacophony of bird shrieks and flapping wings and roaring salamanders and startled gasps. Alex forgoes caution and runs at the hunter, lightning and shadow glowing in his hands. He lets loose his power, and a ball of energy slams into the hunter. Anger swirls through him, blinding him, until he’s suddenly drained and swaying on his feet.

“Alex. Tempest.” Vasco’s arms around him. Vasco’s gaze boring into him. “He’s dead.” Vasco turns him away before he can look at what he’s done. He leads him to where Siora kneels by the Tierna Harh Cadachtas, her face pale and hands shaking. There’s no more need for silence.

“She’s been hit.” Siora’s voice shakes with terror and rage. “I can staunch the bleeding, but we must get her back to the village.”

Aphra will have much to explain.

* * *

“I knew nothing about this.” Aphra crosses her arms over her chest and looks beyond Alex, to the hut where Siora helps tend to the Tierna Harh Cadachtas. “My interest in the people and in this island is purely scholarly.”

“He had to have followed us. He may even have been acting on Burhan’s orders!”

“Which you’ll never know, because you killed him.” Aphra’s tone is chillier than the incoming night air. “Act rashly, if you will, but do not blame me for this, or for the information you now find yourself lacking.” She slips into her tent, which galls Alex all the more. He should have listened to Siora and sent Aphra back to Hikmet.

It’s too late now, while the Tierna Harh Cadachtas lies in her hut, straddling the line between life and death. He can admit to no one, least of all himself, that this is his doing. Had he not been so set on a cure… had he been more vigilant…

Alex buries his head in his hands and tries to shake away the  _ what ifs?  _ And  _ if onlies _ buzzing in his brain like stinging flies. He’s been too single-minded and driven, too rash. But what else can he be when time slips through his fingers like water in a sieve?

“You.  _ Renaigse.” _

Alex looks up through bleary eyes.

“The Tierna would have words with you. Only with the  _ renaigse _ who is  _ on ol menawi, _ ” the villager adds, when Vasco gets up to follow. 

Alex follows, gaze trained between the shoulders of his guide, ignoring the strange stares of the gathered villagers. Diplomacy nags at him to tell them he saved their Tierna; honesty tells him that she wouldn’t have needed saving had they just left well enough alone.

He’s trying not to craft a speech in his mind, trying to keep his expression contrite and then the door opens and a vine lashes out and drags him in. He reaches for the door, which slams shut. More vines twine about him, dangling him above the ground, tightening about his torso and winding around his neck until he sees stars.

The Tierna Harh Cadachtas stares him down with a baleful glow in her eyes. “You have brought death to Frasoneigad.”

_ No _ . He cannot speak, can hardly get enough air into his lungs to remain conscious. “No,” he chokes out.

“Tierna, please,” Siora begins, and another vine strikes at her.

“Cursed be the day the daughter of Bladnid brings a  _ renaigse _ to Frasoneigad.” The Tierna spits.

“He killed the man who shot you!” Siora’s wide eyes plead with her to drop him.

Alex hits the floor, gasping and aching.

“And I’m to be grateful to him for killing the hunter he led to me?” 

He shakes his head and coughs, rubbing gingerly at his throat. “I didn’t. He followed us, unknown. I don’t do the work of the Bridge… of the lions.”

She  _ humphs _ . “You are  _ on ol menawi _ and yet your bond… it is not like mine, or Siora’s. Or any  _ on ol menawi _ .”

He eyes the vines, trembling overhead, just waiting to strike again. He plays his most dangerous card. “My mother was Arelwin.”

The vines wither midair and fall to the floor. “Arelwin. She may have become Tierna one day, had not…” She turns away.

“Tierna? That is not your name?”

“It is a title. I am called Mev. What brings you here, son of Arelwin?” Mev’s anger had dissolved to wariness and she sounds tired. Alex keeps the story short, but when he mentions the panacea Burhan spoke of, her face contorts into an angry mask once more. 

“There is no panacea. It is another of their lies, told to manipulate you into doing their bidding.” 

He shouldn’t be surprised to be used in such a manner, or that no panacea exists; it would be too easy for there to be one cure-all for the Malichor to bring back to Constantin. “Please, there has to be  _ something.” _ Alex kneels on the floor, looking up at Mev and Siora. For the first time in his life he’s begging. Pleading. He’s never been desperate like this, never had a problem he couldn’t find a solution for. 

At last Mev sighs. “There may be one who has the answers you seek.  _ En on mil frichtiman _ .”

He knows the name. Not just because he’s heard it, but because of the way his heart quickens and his blood warms at the sound of the name. “Where will I find him?”

“Only the High King communes directly with the God of a Thousand faces,” Mev tells him. “You’ll want to start there.”

With that she reclines and allows Siora to tend to her, guiding her healing magic and speaking in her peoples’ language. It no longer matters that Alex is  _ on ol menawi _ or that his mother could have been Tierna herself had she not been stolen from the island. He exits the hut, moving slowly. He shakes his head when Vasco inhales sharply upon seeing him back at camp. He doesn’t want to talk about it.

Deep in the night, when his companions sleep, he extricates himself from Vasco’s embrace and slips out under the stars. He watches the milky white scar shift positions in the sky and feels the ground beneath him with bruised hands.  _ En on mil frichtiman _ . The God of a Thousand Faces. Alex just needs to look upon one.


End file.
